And The Woods Responded
by WindSurfBabe
Summary: Aeve did not believe in elves - nor did she need to. But when war threatens to claim those she holds dear, she remembers the old stories. Are there truly immortal beings dwelling in the ruins nearby? Can they help her? And at what price?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: nothing you recognize belongs to me.

* * *

_Elves are wonderful. They provoke wonder.  
Elves are marvellous. They cause marvels.  
Elves are fantastic. They create fantasies.  
Elves are glamorous. They project glamour.  
Elves are enchanting. They weave enchantment.  
Elves are terrific. They beget terror._

_(Terry Pratchett, in Lords and Ladies)_

- Chapter 1 -

It had all started out as a game; an innocent banter of a summer's afternoon, as they lay on the grass of their small clearing. It was close enough to the village for the sake of their parents' peace of mind, and far enough away to give the illusion of isolation and a sense of freedom. The sun shone through the lush canopies high above, its warmth reaching Aeve's skin like a tender kiss from her mother. She laughed as she tried to shield her eyes with her outstretched hands, but still it would seep between her little fingers and tickle her face.

"Silence!" hissed Sveyn as he glared at her.

He was an older boy, the tavern owner Shawn's son, and a good friend of her brother Kilian. Though too serious and condescending in Aeve's eyes, like all the grown-ups, he was usually kind to her… not to mention the best storyteller in their little group.

Aeve stuck out her tongue at him. "You are not the king of me," she pouted.

Sveyn rolled his eyes. "I told you she was too young," he complained to Kilian, casting her a disgusted glance as she grimaced, mocking him. "Let's take her back to the village."

"No!" Aeve sobered and tried hard to appear serious, _adult_, biting her lower lip in concentration. By far the youngest of the group, she knew that only her brother's intervention had granted her an invitation to the gathering. She would not disappoint him by her childish behavior; more importantly, she would not miss Sveyn's story.

Sveyn scowled at her efforts, but said nothing save for an annoyed look to Kilian, and for a few heartbeats the silence of the forest took over. Aeve knew it was not a real silence: somewhere high above, the birds chirped merrily, and the soft rustle of the leaves surrounded them. But for an instant, Aeve imagined that she was all alone in the forest and that she was far, far from home. And as she turned her attention to Sveyn's words, she forgot the warmth of the sun above, the summer all around and the reassuring proximity of the village. For an instant, she was all alone in a hostile world.

"Hush!" Sveyn said, looking around dramatically as though he feared someone else might be listening. "Be quiet… For these are _their_ woods. _They_ could be close…"

He looked at Aeve who looked around as well, slightly worried. Who was it that he was talking about? She caught the sparkle of amusement in the older boy's eyes and scowled. He was toying with her! Pursing her lips, she pulled herself into a more upright position and glared back. She was not a little girl anymore, to be so easily scared.

Sveyn smirked at her reaction, but then his laughing eyes left her to rest in turn on each member of their circle.

"_They_ could come… If we call for them." He paused. "They would creep up on us, as we sit here defenseless…" he whispered. "…and we must pray they kill us if they find us!"

Ida, a girl slightly younger than Sveyn gasped. Aeve edged forward, suddenly feeling uncomfortable and vulnerable where she was sitting. The leaves around them whispered, birds called out to each other. A loud caw of a crow made her jump.

"Wh… who?" asked Ida in a small voice, huddling closer to her older sister.

Sveyn leaned forward, a mysterious smile on his lips. "The elves!" he said.

Aeve burst out laughing, relief washing over her. Sveyn threw her an annoyed glance.

"What?" he snapped.

"Elves don't exist, silly!" she chided him gently. "Everyone knows that!"

"You think so?" Sveyn smiled coldly. "You think so, little girl?"

"Of course!" Aeve said, her hands on her hips – her mother always did that when she was chiding her father about something. "Papa says that elves are supa… su…" She struggled to remember that word, fidgeting under Sveyn's mocking stare. "They don't exist," she concluded.

But no-one echoed her certainty. All around her were serious, worried faces, and Aeve wondered if Papa could have been wrong.

"Oh, elves do exist, little one," whispered Sveyn, glancing worriedly towards the depths of the forest. "They existed long before we came to settle here, and will still be here once we are gone. They wait in the darkness, they wait until they are summoned." He grinned at Ida, who was watching him in fascination. "And if you call for them… They can make your dreams come true."

Ida smiled as he reached out and touched a lock of her blonde hair. "They can fulfill your wish – one wish. But it comes with a price…"

The children held their breath as he paused.

"You can ask them for gold or glory," he said softly. "For a good husband, or good luck. But be prepared to pay a terrible price! For they will ask that you bring them your firstborn in exchange."

Ida shuddered and drew closer to her sister. "Do they… do they eat them?" she muttered.

Everyone's eyes widened in horror as Sveyn shrugged, that mysterious smile playing on his lips once again.

Aeve crossed her arms, trying to appear unconcerned; but she noticed that the afternoon had drawn to an end, that the sun had set behind the treetops and that the shadows had grown longer, hungrier as though they were crawling towards the little group. The birds had gone silent. It was as though the woods were listening as well.

"They do not!" she said, breaking the silence. "And you are a liar, Sveyn Innerney!"

His laughter made her cheeks redden. "And you are a little, little girl, Aeve Maddens. What do you know of the elves?" He did not wait for reply. "Nothing! Nothing, because you are too young, and know nothing of the world!"

"That's not true!" Aeve was on her feet in a second. "Kilian! Tell him!"

But her brother was lying in the grass with his eyes closed. He opened them lazily at the mention of his name. "What?" he drawled sleepily.

"Calling your brother for help, now?" scoffed Sveyn. "Is that how mature you are?" He nodded with that insufferable, superior air of his. "Go on, girl. Call your brother, or maybe even your Daddy?"

Aeve looked all around for support; but no-one met her eyes. All were watching the rustling bushes warily. So she clenched her teeth in anger, her small hands balling into fists.

"Well, maybe I'm a little girl, but at least I don't believe such nonsense!" she spat, trying to ignore the surge of fear when she thought of the things lurking at the fringe of their clearing. "My Papa always told me to think for myself, and that's what I'll do." She pushed her chin up high, glaring at Sveyn. "There is no. Such. Thing. As elves." There, she'd said it. She held her breath, as the woods seemed to absorb her words.

"No?" Sveyn cocked an eyebrow. "Then what happened to old Avery, then? Do you think that maybe the wolves did that to him?"

Aeve frowned. The death of the old hunter, a few months earlier, had been on everyone's lips for weeks. Her own father and the men of the village had gone to the forest to retrieve his body, and she remembered that she and Kilian had been forbidden to go near the forest for a month after that.

Still, she would not give up. Aeve shrugged, imitating Sveyn's own careless gesture.

"Maybe the wolves staked him to the tree with their arrows, yes?"

"Silly, wolves don't have… Oh."

"Exactly," Sveyn grinned at her. "And wolves have no hunting knives… Those loooong, wicked knives that are so _sharp_ that they can slice a man's throat, and that he's _dead_ before he can…"

"Sveyn!" came Kilian's warning growl. Aeve's brother had sat up, and was glaring at his friend. "She's only six!"

Sveyn looked annoyed. "Look, I told you she's too young to hang out with us!"

Kilian sighed. "Look, it's only for today. Mother's gone to the fair, and I was stuck with her…"

"Stuck? With me?" Aeve's eyes blazed at her brother's confession. So he was ashamed of her, and had felt obliged to drag her along so that he didn't have to sit at home with her? "You are a mean, mean person!" she shrieked, turning on her heels, but stopped as Sveyn's laughter reached her ears. She turned around again and advanced upon him in her rage. "And you, you are a stupid boy!" She jabbed her finger into his chest. "You can keep your stupid tales, I don't want to ever talk to you again!"

"Aeve! Wait!" Kilian called after her, but she stormed off.

Tears blinded her as she ran, stumbling on roots and tangled grass. What a fool she had been! She had thought that maybe they could accept her, and even like her, but no, they had only made fun of her! Kilian was mean – not that she would tell her mother, that'd only confirm Sveyn's words that she was a little girl who needed someone to protect her. No, but she would never speak to him again.

And never to Sveyn, either! He was the most insufferable, the most conceited boy in the whole wide world. And elves did not exist! Ha! She was right, she knew she was. And she would never change her mind.

Never-ever.

* * *

"Listen to them," muttered Elrohir bitterly. "Long Years of alliance forgotten…" He was perched on one of the higher branches and dangling his legs in what Elladan knew to be irritation. "Better men than those who now live here have fought to maintain the peace and friendship between our races… And all that for what?"

Elladan turned away to hide his smile. He knew his brother's temper all too well; there was no need to fuel Elrohir's anger further with his amusement. He looked up again, craning his neck to see his brother better. "They are children," he said softly. "They know not what they say."

"No." Elrohir shook his dark mane ruefully. "But they repeat their parents' words. And after years of repeating, they will grow into men who believe those lies." His eyes bore into Elladan's. "And you need not hide from me, Elladan. I know all too well your opinion on the subject."

Elladan grimaced at his brother's words. Elrohir read him just as well. "Forgive me. It is just…"

"I know." Elrohir sighed and looked away, into the green depths of their beloved woods. "I remember."

The sounds of the forest took over again, the soft whispers of the trees barely distinguishable now, even to elven ears. The world they knew and loved was disappearing: erased, diluted by the growing presence of men in this corner of the earth. Elladan wondered how much longer it would be before he ceased to hear the trees at all. His attention snapped back to the small group of children below as the voices rose in shades of hurt and anger.

_"Elves don't exist, silly!"_

In the branches above, Elrohir snorted.

"_T__hey wait until they are summoned…__"_

"Ah, too late, young master," Elladan muttered, shifting into a more comfortable position. The tree that his brother had picked for their observation post was old and gnarly; Elladan's limbs were beginning to protest at the knots and angles of the branches. He glanced at Elrohir, in hopes that his brother had seen and heard enough, and would call their watch to an end. But Elrohir was leaning forward, listening raptly to the children's conversation.

With a heavy sigh, Elladan settled in for a longer stay. Tuning out the high-pitched voices below, he closed his eyes and relaxed against the cool bark of the tree. His hands, until then resting on the rough surface only for balance, relaxed as he allowed himself to _feel_, to let some of the forest's essence seep into him. Everything was calm, slumbering in the warmth of the sun. The lands were at peace – rare though it had been these last years.

The Fourth Age had ended abruptly in bloodshed and betrayal, as the great Kingdoms of Gondor, Arnor and Rohan had clashed in a terrible war. Few had survived, fewer still amongst those who remembered the old times. The lands, the unharvested fields and the emptied villages had been divided between the surviving warlords. And so the new kingdoms had been born. The Fifth Age had seen the old customs and beliefs fall into oblivion, the legends twisted to inspire fear and ensure obedience. It was a Dark Age in its most metaphorical sense – a time of ignorance and fear.

And still they lingered here – he and Elrohir, and a few of those still loyal to the House of Elrond: Glorfindel, Lindir, and some others. All had grown restless during the last Long Years, but all remained for the love of his brother. And for the umpteenth time since they had watched their father's ship disappear on the horizon, Elladan wondered what it was exactly that Elrohir was waiting for.

"Soon, brother," murmured Elrohir from above, as if he had heard his thoughts. "Soon, our time will come. And then…"

Elladan smiled; but this time he did not hide it. "…we can go home."


	2. Chapter 2

- Chapter 2 -

_Six years later_

Aeve kicked the ball despondently. It bounced forward, unharmed, and that only fuelled her anger further while unshed tears burned her eyes. It was so unfair! After all, she was only two years younger than Kilian, and already twelve! Surely she was old enough to accompany them to the fair! But no, her mother had refused to listen to her pleas and her promises of obedience. Her excuse? _"The times have changed…"_ Ha! And Kilian – that insufferable, pretentious little troll! - had smirked behind their mother's back as they rode off to the fair.

She trudged down the forest path leading to the clearing – not that she would find any of her friends there. Everyone had gone to Aston. Everyone save her. Aeve refused to think of the fun her friends must have been having at that exact moment, but flashes of music, dancing and merry laughter played over and over in her mind. Sveyn, who had been invited along with Kilian, had taunted her with promises of bear tamers, and gypsies, and ministrels, and…

"Aargh!" Aeve shrieked in frustration, balling her hands into fists so hard that her knuckles hurt.

The cry echoed through the woods. Frightened birds took off from the nearest trees, shaking the branches… And then the silence descended once again upon the forest. But it was an attentive silence, as if the woods themselves had become wary of her presence and watched her for her next move. Aeve decided she did not care. Walking up to the ball, she kicked it again as hard as she could.

"Hmmph." Aeve scowled. How on earth was she supposed to entertain herself for a day – a whole day! – if every single one of her friends was gone? She remembered her mother's instructions: _do not go out after dark. Do not talk to strangers_. _Do not go alone into the forest_. That was _unfair_!

She looked up to see the ball in the middle of their clearing. Their _empty_ clearing. Once again, the ball went bouncing between the trees, dancing madly in the tall grass; it tumbled forward with the slope of the path and Aeve followed, watching her feet with a gloomy fascination. One kick, another kick… each squelch of wet grass saying, _unfair_. She had been waiting for this day for months, doing every chore her mother requested of her without a word, enduring it all for the sake of the golden moments that glittered ahead: the Fair of Aston! And how had she been rewarded?

Ahead, the ball lay innocently in a nest of grass, as if mocking her. Aeve aimed a vicious kick and slipped. She flailed her arms to steady herself, but the shock of the impact knocked the air out of her lungs. She struggled to sit up; she could not breathe, and tears that she had been holding back came flowing freely. Aeve forced herself to breathe in – a hissing intake of air, then another as the pain in her chest subsided. Wrapping her arms around herself, she sat on the cold ground until the sobs were gone as well.

Her anger had disappeared, replaced by a feeling of abandonment and shame. Aeve realized that she had behaved like a spoiled little girl – exactly like Sveyn used to say. She blushed at the memory of his words. He always found a way with them, twisted them so that they hurt, and rang in her ears long after his mocking laughter had died down.

Pushing herself from the ground, Aeve tried to brush off the grass stains on her skirt. Then she looked up, and screamed in fright.

A face was looking down at her. Ageless, pale and so very sad, its eyes open yet unseeing. Aeve rested her hand on her chest as if to calm down her wildly beating heart. It was only a statue; it could not harm her. Carved out of white stone, it represented a woman of magnificent beauty, dressed in a gown adorned in jewels. The statue watched her in mournful silence. Its arms were outstretched, as if to welcome Aeve to her realm.

Still shaking, Aeve took a step back. Where was she? A flash of white to her left made her jump. This time, though the delicate features made it hard to tell, Aeve thought it was the statue of a man. A beardless face, pointed ears showing beneath the long, flowing hair… Aeve's heart skipped a beat. This was an elf! Suddenly, her surroundings appeared to her clearly: she was standing amongst the ruins of an elven garden. Magnificently carved arches appeared here and there, almost smothered by roots and vines; stone peeking out from beneath the moss. Even the air was different, here. Still, but waiting; silent, but not empty. It felt… alive.

Aeve took another step back, almost falling in her hurry. Elven lands! Sveyn's stories flashed through her mind. Forbidden lands! She retreated hastily until the strange magic could no longer be felt. The statues watched her sadly through the trees. Only then did Aeve allow herself to relax. No-one had seen her; no-one would know.

It was then that she saw it: her ball, lying in the tall grass that grew against a stone wall. She bit her lip. It was her favourite toy, but she dared not go back for it. Full of regret, Aeve turned around; the ball was lost. She had to accept it. With one last regretful look over her shoulder, she gathered her skirts and ran back to the village.

The statues watched her go.

* * *

"She will lead them here." Urúvion looked up from the fire to meet Elladan's eyes. "This place is no longer safe."

Elladan chose not to reply and glanced to his brother in hopes that he would answer. It had been several years since they had last spoken of the purpose of their staying. Maybe the time for the long-awaited explanation had come, triggered by the intrusion of the little mortal into their realm? But Elrohir was sprawled in his seat by the fireplace, his fingers playing with the ball left by the girl. His eyes, though focused on the flames, seemed dreamy, as though Elrohir's mind was entirely elsewhere.

"_We_ are no longer safe," insisted Urúvion in a low voice as he looked at each individual sitting in the room. "We must leave."

Elladan suppressed a weary sigh. He knew what was coming.

"I cannot see what is stopping _you_," retorted Glorfindel as he stretched out his legs towards the fire. In the dimly lit room, his figure, wrapped up in a dark cloak, blended with the shadows; only his hair blazed as though woven of gold. "If you are eager to leave, please be so kind as to suit yourself."

"Urúvion meant no offense," Lindir chimed in, his voice soft and melodious. "You know we all long for what we once lost."

Elladan smiled in the twilight of the room. Lindir, ever the pacifier. Always defending even the most foul-tempered person. But he wondered how long would his friend's patience last. How long before he, too, questioned the reason that kept them here, far from their loved ones. For even he could not blame Urúvion for his impatience. Over the years, they had retreated deeper and deeper into their home, progressively abandoning the outskirts of Imladris as the territories of Men expanded. But they had not left, urged by Elrohir's plea to remain a little longer. Mortal years had turned into Long Years, and the world around them had inexorably forgotten their existence.

_Help me, Elrohir!_ he thought. _Show me, help me understand what you saw!_

He knew that his loyalty to his brother would never fail; that he would remain by Elrohir's side until the world ended, and beyond if he had to. Elrohir needn't even ask. But sometimes, he would question his brother's reasons, and his treacherous heart would stop believing in him – if only for a split second. He understood what it felt like for their friends. When loyalty fought against love, hearts bled, no matter which side won.

Urúvion glared at Lindir. "I need not your help," he grumbled. "I only speak what many are thinking. Even you" – he pointed at Lindir, who opened his mouth to protest. "Even you wonder why we are still on this side of the sea."

Lindir shifted in his seat and looked away. "I will remain with Elrohir," he muttered.

"But so will I!" Urúvion exclaimed. "So will I. But I only ask one thing: to understand!"

"Alas, you seem too young to be able to. If I were Elrohir, I would not attempt to put anything into your empty head," Glorfindel drawled. "And I will tell you more, Urúvion. I am tired of your complaining. If you have not the patience to wait, then leave. Leave! I will build your ship with my own hands."

Urúvion almost jumped to his feet at Glorfindel's insult, but managed to rein in his anger. His hands grabbed the arms of his chair so hard that Elladan almost expected the wood to give way at the pull. Glorfindel's lips curled into a feral grin as the warrior leaned forward in his seat, eager to continue the verbal spar, and Elladan understood that even the ancient warrior was tired of waiting.

"Enough!" Elladan snapped, but realized that his voice sounded almost pleading. "Enough, all of you!" He rose to his feet. "Each and every one of us…"

He stopped. It was not his place to remind them of their losses, or boast of his own. All of them had seen and given enough, be it Glorfindel the Balrog-Slayer or the young Urúvion. All of them deserved to know the truth. Urúvion was right: it had been too long.

He settled for a banality: "Soon our task here will be done and we will go home."

"But when?" Urúvion said quietly. "When? Will that be before the Men come, and we are forced to fight for our lives?"

"They will not come."

They all turned at the sound of Elrohir's voice.

"Tomorrow I will bring the toy to the edge of the forest. They will not follow the path down here. They are too afraid of us." Elrohir looked at the ball in his hands, then rolled it between his palms. "You ask for answers," he said. "And I wish I could give you some. But it is not within my power." He looked up to meet Elladan's eyes. "Those who wish to sail must do so. For I cannot say how much longer I must remain here."

Elladan cocked an eyebrow. "Are you implying I would leave you, brother?" he said quietly, challenging Elrohir to deny it. "I would have thought that after all this time…"

"And how much longer can you stay?" Elrohir snapped. "How much longer can you bear to be parted from our family and not resent me for it?" He shook his head. "No. I would rather lose you for a Long Year than alienate you forever."

His voice betrayed his pain, and Elladan realised that of them all, he suffered the most in their forced exile. After all, each of them merely followed Elrohir out of loyalty and friendship. They never questioned what they felt, and thus their path was clearly laid out before them. But Elrohir stepped on uncertain ground, guided by touch and hearing and intuition rather than rationality. He had no reason other that he _knew_ he had to stay.

Acting on impulse, Elladan took a step towards his brother and pulled Elrohir into a rough embrace. "You will never lose me, Elrohir," he whispered into Elrohir's ear. "Together we were born, together we shall go."

"It is settled, then." Glorfindel rose from his seat and pulled his cloak tighter around him. "I bid you all goodnight." He walked out of the room, the glimmer of his golden hair disappearing in the darkness.

Lindir rose as well and bent to retrieve the harp he had propped against his chair; he had not played tonight for fear that the wind carried his music to the villagers. The mortals feared the elves, for all their stories of elven cruelty and viciousness; but they did not know that they were equally feared now. The last Long Years had shown the remaining elves what would happen if they were discovered: torches, pyres and armies at the edges of their woods, ready to draw them out like beasts.

And thus, Elrohir's obstination was all the more inexplicable. What good was there left in the world worth staying for?

Urúvion watched the two elves go; he seemed defeated, as though their renewed allegiance to Elrohir had broken his confidence in his rightness. With a last, pleading look to Elladan he got to his feet as well. "Goodnight," he whispered, and bowed slightly before following his elders.

"It is easier for Glorfindel," Elladan heard Elrohir say. "He has not seen any of his kin for so long that his pain must have dulled. But Urúvion… His mother sailed but a few Long Years ago."

"They will stay," Elladan replied quietly. "They will stay…" But he wondered what the price would be of such blind devotion and sacrifice.

He recalled his brother's words. Even if he remained loyal to Elrohir, how long would it take before doubt and longing drove their friends away? Would they all sail without looking back, with bitter memories of shame and a broken promise? Elladan did not want his friends to be ashamed… And himself, could he truly find the strength to maintain his faith in Elrohir? It had already shown signs of failing…

It seemed that whatever his choice – and their fate, Elladan would soon find it difficult to look himself in the eye, whether he faced his reflection in a mirror, or his twin brother.


	3. Chapter 3

- Chapter 3 -

Elladan crept through the forest, his senses on alert; the village was so very near now that he could hear voices over the wind that whistled between the trees, coming from the houses closest to the woods. He could smell the food cooking for the evening meal, listen to the children's laughter; and for an instant, his heart constricted in his chest at the memories brought by those sensations. He remembered the times he and Elrohir would ride back home from a hunt, and see, down in the valley, the smoking chimneys and the roofs glittering in the setting sun. And they would smile, for they were home again. Now, whenever Elladan left the valley, shadows bade him farewell, and welcomed him back when he returned.

_How the world has changed!_ he mused. _How long the years we have spent away…_ But their restless slumber would soon come to an end. The idle waiting, only punctuated by snows and summers would suddenly tumble into action, and then… Elladan shook his head free of those happy thoughts, concentrating on the task at hand.

Elrohir, who was following, suddenly stopped. "Here," he whispered. "The path begins here." He bent and carefully placed the ball in the grass, in full view of passers-by.

Elladan turned around, unsure of what to do next. Reason told him to return to Imladris, to go back into hiding until their time came; but his heart longed for the company of Men. There was a time when their races lived in peace, he remembered. They fought and died side by side, laughed and celebrated victories at the same table. And now… How he desired that company once again! He took a step towards the village. It seemed so peaceful, so welcoming… So close! Through the canvas of trees, Elladan could see the nearest houses, huddling together in the shadow of the forest.

"Elladan!" Elrohir hissed warningly; yet Elladan ignored him, and took another hesitant step towards the edge of the forest.

"Elladan! Stop!" In a heartbeat, Elrohir was by his side, his hand heavy on Elladan's arm. "Do not go there," he warned. "It is not time yet."

Ignoring his brother's warning, Elladan crouched in the shadow of a tree. He leaned against the rough bark and studied the small settlement. The village was quiet. It seemed that the women had gone inside in preparation of dinner, dragging their children along for help; men were still in the fields, or busy with their trades. The streets were empty… Elladan squinted as movement caught his eye.

On the porch of one of the houses sat a little girl. Fair-haired and frail-looking, she could not have been older than ten or eleven. Elladan recognised her as the child who had lost her ball near the ruins of what once was the entrance to Imladris. She was staring right towards where he was hiding, and for an instant Elladan froze, afraid to be seen. But the child made no movement to indicate that his presence had been discovered, and he willed himself to remain still and watch. The wind died and, or an instant, a slightly off-key tune reached his ears. The girl was singing to herself. Her untrained voice struggled with the melody, but still the song seemed strangely familiar…

_Is that…?_ Elladan frowned and turned around in confusion, seeking out his brother's eyes. for the child sang a song that no mortal had uttered since the fall of the kingdoms. A song of old lore, and of elven language, once sung by their foster brother to his future queen, their sister.

_Tinúviel elvanui_  
_Elleth alfirin edhelhael_  
_O hon ring finnil fuinui_  
_A renc gelebrin thiliol..._

Elrohir blanched. "The Song to Lúthien!" he exclaimed. "But how…"

He was interrupted by a gasp. Elladan spun around in dread to see the girl jump to her feet, eyes wide with fright. She remained frozen for an instant, trembling like a doe before a hunter; her eyes were on them. Then she whipped around to disappear in the house.

"Shadows!" Elladan swore. "We must leave."

He rose and made to follow Elrohir, who had already disappeared behind the trees. But he found himself stumbling; his legs refused to obey him, the forest swam before his eyes. He gasped as he fell to his knees. His eyes were open wide, yet he did not see the woods anymore. The sight before him was the village; but the season had changed to autumn. The golden leaves carried by the wind swirled and spun around a young woman, who laughed as she danced down the path, a babe in her arms. Fair-haired and small-boned she was… And Elladan recognised her face. She was the girl with the ball, the girl who had seen them in the woods. She smiled down at her child, kissed its forehead and danced on, drunk on happiness. She sang, elven words pouring from her lips as the babe giggled in her arms.

And then the vision changed. Flames erupted all around her, devouring the village. A fiery inferno lay where once was a peaceful settlement. Smoke rose towards the cold, winter sky, along with the shrieks of agony of the villagers. And with the fire came the armed men. They marched amongst the burning homes, torching those yet spared and thrusting the survivors back into the flames. They stepped confidently through the carnage, kicked aside the darkened bodies. Their swords shone red in the light of their deeds, tainted with blood and hate. Elladan felt bile rise in his throat as the stench of burnt flesh reached him. And amongst the victims, her golden hair reflecting the flames, lay the nameless girl, her ball still clutched in her small hands. Her empty eyes stared into the open sky, her lips sealed.

"Elladan! By the stars, awaken! We cannot stay!"

Elladan blinked. The sensations returned brutally: the ground beneath him, the wind sweeping through the forest, the sounds of the village and Elrohir's worried face as his brother peered into his eyes. "What happened?"

"I saw… I saw her." Elladan struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on Elrohir. "I saw that girl…" He gripped his brother's tunic, pulling Elrohir closer. "You were right!" he whispered urgently, "You were right! We cannot leave."

He tried to walk; but his legs were still numb. And as Elrohir dragged him back to their dwelling, he tried to look back once more. "We cannot leave… Not while she is in danger."

* * *

_The forest is alive._

Aeve sat on the porch, her elbows resting on her knees and her chin in her hands. She watched, fascinated, as the wall of trees at the edge of the forest swayed with each gust of wind. It seemed that each tree had a rhythm of its own. And each time the wind blew, the leaves would shimmer in the setting sun like a trickle of water on the scales of a sleeping green dragon. Aeve imagined the giant beast, stretched out to rest just next to her small village; now that would be a great story to tell! And Sveyn would be so jealous…

Aeve began to sing softly. She did not understand the words, but they seemed… fitting, somehow, to the tales of dragons and other magical folk. She wished she could have a voice as beautiful as her mother's, whose singing was greatly appreciated during feasts and celebrations. No-one had a clearer, softer voice.

The leaves rustled on in the breeze, oblivious to her singing. Their whispers almost covered her voice at moments, and sometimes they would only chorus to her words. But as the wind suddenly died, Aeve heard another voice echo her own. She looked up.

There was someone, in the woods. She squinted to see a young man, dark-haired and dressed in green, hiding at the very border of the forest, almost completely hidden by the trees. And yet, she knew he was not a hunter, or a game keeper. His face was too fair, his hair too long; he did not seem to belong in the world she knew.

Aeve jumped to her feet, her heart beating wildly in her chest. _Elf! He is an elf!_ her mind screamed. An elf from the woods, one of those Sveyn had warned her about. _Why is he here?_ she thought frantically. And then: _Has he come for me?_ She opened her mouth to scream, but her tongue seemed glued to her palate. So she stumbled up the stairs, and into the house, into its familiar safety and comfort, where no elf would dare find her.

…_Would he?_

* * *

Elladan shifted in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. But the cushioned chair felt like marble, tonight; and Elladan himself felt worn out, tired beyond measure. His head was aching, and not even the willow-bark tea Elrohir had brought him had relieved the pain.

"What have you seen?"

Elrohir's soft whisper echoed through the room like a shout, and Elladan winced. He rubbed his forehead, willing the ache to go away. Beside the discomfort, the pain clouded his judgement and jumbled his thoughts when he tried to see clearly. The sound of his brother's footsteps scorched his ears, and Elladan wished his twin would stop pacing.

"I am not certain," he replied quietly, trying to concentrate. "I saw the mortal girl, but she was older, with a babe in her arms." The visions were slowly coming back, but their meaning remained as obscure as before. "It was her child, that much I knew… But how could I?" He frowned and looked at his brother. "Then I saw her death… And again, I can only ask why?"

He saw Elrohir bite the inside of his cheek and recognised it as a sign that his brother's patience, worn out by the long wait, was nearing its end. And yet Elrohir needed it more than any of them. Elladan pushed the pain away, diving deeper into his memories. There they were, the images of fire and slaughter, obscenely entwined with those of happiness and motherhood. For Elrohir's sake and for his own, they had to understand the message.

Elrohir paused in his pacing and turned to Elladan. "Who is she?" he asked. "She is a peasant girl. Her father is a smith, her mother but a mortal woman. And yet, somehow, she knows an elven song that we thought long lost but in our memories."

Elladan raised an eyebrow. "No elf has taught her this."

"No." His brother nodded, staring into space with his arms folded. "I wish Father had shared more of his knowledge about visions," he whispered eventually. "I wish I knew how to read them…" He looked up to meet Elladan's eyes. "I tried… I tried for years now, but still I am lost."

Elladan frowned at his brother's words. "You have seen this?" he asked, rising from his seat. "When? And why did you not tell me?"

"And what would you have me say?" Elrohir retorted bitterly. "That I have visions I do not understand? That I know not what is expected of me, that I just _know_ that I am – that we are – not done here?"

"I could have helped!" Elladan cried, immediately wincing as the pain in his temples exploded. "I could have tried…"

Elrohir only smiled bitterly, as though challenging him to live up to that affirmation, to decipher the meaning of their visions and justify all those years of waiting and longing. Elladan looked away, pushing down the frustration and the resentment at having been left out of such a secret. All this time, his brother had carried this burden; carried it alone out of his own choice. He had not trusted Elladan to help… Maybe he had been right; he was no more capable than Elrohir of solving this macabre riddle.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his face. _Why us?_ Beside the gift of foresight that ran in their blood, there was no apparent reason for them to have received the visions. No link… He turned away, following Elrohir's footsteps down the length of the room. Night had long since fallen outside, and the single candle that burned was reflected in the mirror in the corner. The image sent back to him was that of a pale, haunted being, a ghost – and yet Elladan felt feverish, very much alive… Two contradictory images.

Elladan almost stumbled as the images swirled again and assembled into a scene.

"Two futures," he whispered. "Two different outcomes… Depending on what?" He looked at Elrohir. "You were right… We are not done. That girl's future is linked to ours. Somehow, we are to save her or condemn her and her child."

His brother seemed sceptical. "And why her in particular? There have been many wars, brother. Many have died… What difference if another innocent's blood is spilled?"

A familiar tune seemed to float in the air for an instant; Elladan smiled sadly. "And if the blood is that of a King?"


	4. Chapter 4

First and foremost, Happy New Year to all of you! May 2010 be full of good fanfiction and swift, inspired writing.

Many thanks to peredhillover, erulisse and NiRi for the corrections on this chapter.

* * *

- Chapter 4 -

The door creaked as it opened, and Aeve froze under the covers. Slowly, very slowly, she wriggled closer to the edge of the bed and reached out to lift the cover and peek at the intruder. Maybe the elves had finally come to get her? She swallowed the knot that had formed in her throat and looked.

"Aeve?"

It was Sveyn's voice, and Aeve allowed a sigh of relief to escape her lips – she hadn't realized that she had been holding her breath. She didn't reply, though; she knew he would never believe her, and would not miss the chance to make fun of her for her supposedly foolish fears. Ha! She would like to see _his_ face if he got to see the elves right close to the village!

"Are you… all right?"

Sveyn shifted on his feet, looking uncomfortable. Aeve saw him glance back at the door.

"Your mother told my mother that you would not come out…"

Aeve almost groaned in annoyance. She had tried to pretend that she was feeling unwell, even donning her nightgown and climbing back into bed, but it seemed that her mother was not fooled. And while she had indulged Aeve's little act, she had voiced her true thoughts to Sveyn's mother. And now he was coming to apologize, undoubtedly under the threat of a punishment. Well, he could suffer for all she cared.

Sveyn seemed to wait for an answer; he hesitated, then looked at his feet. "Is that because of me?"

Aeve frowned. He did look miserable now, which could easily be justified by the prospect of a grounding, but was that guilt in his voice? Aeve pulled the covers higher to get a better look of his face, and Sveyn noticed. He crouched, now at eye-level with her, and Aeve's breath caught in her throat.

"Did I scare you, with my stories?" he asked softly.

But from her hiding place under the sheets, Aeve could only stare back. She had noticed earlier that what she saw through that little window made of covers seemed more real, more beautiful and striking than when observed in everyday life; and now, as she watched him, Aeve wondered when Sveyn had become so… different. How did she not notice, while she took great pride in seeing many things other people took for granted, how luminous his grey eyes were, how harmonious the lines of his face?

Aeve shrunk back, refusing to recognize the boy before her as the Sveyn who used to tease her mercilessly and look down on her for her youth. And yet there was no denying it. This was Sveyn, the one and only; and he _was_ handsome.

"Aeve?" Sveyn smiled, and her heart constricted in her chest. "I know you can hear me, you know? Will you not speak to me?"

Now his voice sounded condescending again, like the many times she had objected to what he told as being superstition, and Aeve felt her cheeks heat up with an angry blush. He thought she was a scared little girl hiding under the covers because of those imaginary monsters he had told her about? Well, he was mistaken – and Aeve would show him that.

Anger had given her her wits back. She brutally pushed back the covers, catching him unawares, and sat in her bed.

"I'm not afraid of your stories, Sveyn Innerney," she snapped. "I know they are merely invented to scare me and the others. And you know what?" Aeve lifted her chin. "It isn't working!" She shoved him out of her way – briefly, limiting the contact, since she could not trust herself to not betray her stunning discovery – and jumped to the ground.

Then she realized she was still wearing her nightgown, and felt the blush creep back to her cheeks. Mustering all the dignity she could find, she crossed her arms and glared at him. "Now, if you'll excuse me…"

Sveyn burst out laughing. "I should have known that you were not one to be scared," he said. "I realize my mistake now." He bowed exaggeratedly, glancing up at her with mirth in his eyes. "I'll leave you then, my Lady." And before Aeve could reply he turned around and was gone, leaving her standing in the middle of the small room.

Not for the first time after an altercation with him Aeve felt her hands tremble; but this time it was not in anger. She felt her knees go weak at the memory of his eyes staring into hers, of his voice that, for once, had not been full of mockery. She already knew that his voice could be enchanting as he drew his listeners into his story. But this time he had simply spoken to her, not for her entertainment or in a taunt. Aeve realized that she had seen a side of him no-one ever had, and felt strangely elated.

This was a new mystery to her, one she would take pleasure in studying and solving, though her usually rational mind persisted in showing her images she dared not consider – and that would never be.

* * *

Lindir stretched his legs towards the dying fire, feeling the last remains of its heat seeping through his worn boots. Soon, he would need new ones, and winter was approaching. Once it used to be a time of feasts and rejoicing, of family and gift-giving, but not anymore, not since the ending of the previous Age. They would spend yet another cold, silent season in the valley. Lindir remembered how the snow and the atmosphere used to inspire him; now he could hardly recall when he had last touched his harp.

He pushed those melancholy-filled thoughts aside as Elladan stood up and glanced to his brother, seeking reassurance or approval as he faced them all. Lindir sensed that what would be said was important, and resisted the sudden urge to lean forward. He would not hear better if he did, nor would he be able to maintain that façade of careful neutrality any longer. And while it mattered little if he was known as a curious elf, Lindir could not afford to lose the trust of any of those who confided in him, convinced that his apparent indifference masked the adhesion to their exact ideas. He had learned many a thing this way that had served his friends and sons of his Lord well; he would not lose this reputation now, not even when he, too, burned to know at last the reason of their waiting.

For unlike what the others might believe, Lindir longed to sail. He had hoped to do so with the departure of Elrond, but the decision of his friends had prickled his loyalty. There had to be a reason behind it, and he looked forward to finding out. Secrets, quests, acts of bravery and sacrifice, those were the things that inspired him… And glory was what he sought. Not through his skill in battle would he obtain it, though. Lindir still nurtured that dream of writing a ballad that would be remembered forever. Just like Maglor, he longed to remain in the memories as one of the greatest musicians of Arda, and someday he would write the piece that would ensure such glory. But as years went by, all alike in appearance and content, that dream had withered away.

He was the one to blame, really. He really was too curious for his own good, and too proud to admit that the challenge was too big for him to chew, that the weight of countless years of deceived expectations had broken his spirits. He had been younger, then, but not enough to blame his youth for such a miscalculation. And Lindir felt, with the exalted optimism of a poet, that one day he would rise from oblivion, and accomplish what he had desired – be it to find glory, or to return to his family, unknown but loved.

As Elladan started to speak, explaining what he and Elrohir had seen and offering his conclusions about the visions and their connection to the mortal girl, Lindir listened raptly. Once, long ago, he had served Elrond as a mediator and – if necessary – a spy. He engraved each word into his memory, weighed the possibilities and questioned the arguments. This habit he had thought long since gone; but here it was, returning to him with ease. Lindir noticed that Elrohir looked relieved, as though Elladan's story truly offered him the answers he had been waiting for for such a long time. And yet, nothing was certain – and nothing could be.

"Aragorn's heiress?" Urúvion repeated. He seemed skeptical, and Lindir understood it too well. Too many questions remained, too many things were assumed and not proven.

"We are not certain," Elladan replied, glancing towards Lindir. "Maybe there would be a way to verify such heritage?..." he ventured, but Lindir only shook his head.

Since Erestor's departure along with his Lord, he had become the keeper of the little lore still contained in the libraries of the Last Elven House. He had attempted to keep track of the genealogy of the Kings of Gondor, since it was dear to the heart of all those who remembered Estel. That bloodline had been all that still tied them to their past, and as the heirs had disappeared, scattered through a war-torn world, they had truly felt alone.

"I have lost any trace of the royal line after the fall of Gondor," Lindir sighed. "My archives are old, and the little information I have been able to find since is all but trustworthy. Rumours spread by travelling merchants, letters found on the occasional dead messenger…" He shrugged. "It pains me to say I can be of no help."

"The song argues in favour of your theory, my friend," said Glorfindel from his corner. "It has been too long since our language has been uttered by a mortal for this to be a coincidence." He seemed joyful and determined, as though the revelations had given him reason enough to justify his loyalty in the past and ensure it in the future. A brave, loyal heart – such was the Glorfindel that Lindir had come to know and love. But unlike those who assumed there was no more to the golden warrior, Lindir knew that there were depths behind this mask of blind courage better left unexplored.

Reluctantly, he nodded. "That, and the visions. I cannot believe that you would see the possible futures of a stranger. Not unless blood ties you together…" He hesitated. "…or I know nothing of foresight." He hoped that his bait would be taken, and things revealed about this gift, but Elladan only smiled as he went to take his seat.

"No more than we do, my friend," he sighed. "No more than we do."

Disappointed that his curiosity had gone unsatisfied, Lindir nodded. He still had doubts, but none that could be answered by Elladan or Elrohir. He wondered about the time of the attack – that is, if the visions could be trusted. They had lived secluded from the rest of the world too long; they knew nothing about what wars could be coming or were even being fought and would soon reach their lands. How much time did they have to prepare? How large, how organised the enemy that they would be facing? And, above all, was saving this possible heir the best course of action?

"The infant, her son… Have you seen his future?" Lindir asked softly. "For if there is something that our trial must have taught us," he said, "it is that mankind has changed – and not for the best. Have you not heard the echoes of men's wars? Have you not seen the distant halo of the flames, as they set each other's lands afire? You yourself have foreseen that they will not cease."

He saw Glorfindel frown and Urúvion's eyes widen in surprise. And indeed, it was as though the very instant they had found a reason to hold on to, he was pulling it right from their hands. Elladan opened his mouth to speak, but Elrohir raised his hand and motioned his twin to wait.

"Let him finish," he murmured. "He speaks the truth."

Lindir nodded, thankful for Elrohir's intervention. Hearing what he had to say could not be easier than saying it; and say it he must.

"There is good left out there," he said quietly. "I know there is. The men who once were our friends were brave and loyal; and such should be their descendants… But they are scattered. They are few. What could still remain of an ancient bloodline would now be so diluted that all magic and nobility it once possessed would have been irremediably lost. And without training and knowledge, power – if power there still is – can be nothing but a threat." He paused to let the words sink in. "What if the child grows into a tyrant? What if, instead of running dry, men's thirst for blood is fuelled by yet another power-hungry leader? With a head crowned by our hands and a sword forged by an elven master, he will be invincible. Will you, then, have the heart to strike him down, and spill the blood you have once saved?"


	5. Chapter 5

New chapter up at last! I apologize for th delay, folks, Aeve was sulking and not talking to me anymore. :P

**jada:** hope your curiosity will be maintained with this chapter...

* * *

- Chapter 5 -

It was in moments like these, when he saw the confusion on his friends' faces, that Lindir despised this voice that could sow the seed of doubt into the listeners' minds and sway them to his side. There was a time when he was still a mere ministrel, innocent and eager to please his friends with a simple song. There was a time when his greatest fear was to strike a false note or to forget the words; but duty had changed it all. What once was black and white blurred to shades of grey, where once lay clear limits between good and evil stood people – human, with flaws and fears. And he had regretted the path he had chosen.

Now the future of a child, of its mother and mayhap of a land lay in the balance. And he finally understood that there truly what a sacrifice really entitled… For reason and heart were rarely friends.

"To protect the bloodline we will have to take up arms once again, and slay men in battle." Lindir looked around the room, facing each of them. "Some of us may die. And if you accept this risk, I must ask this of you now. After the sacrifice of your friends and kin, will you have the courage to undo what you have done?"

Silence descended upon the room. The hushed, indignant whispers ceased, as though every man present felt the weight of such a task on his shoulders. Lindir himself sat back, pondering the possibility that he may have to ride into battle once again – something he had not done for very long, and had never enjoyed to begin with. Would he have the strength to pick up a sword for an ancient cause, and the stubbornness to hide his fear if he fell, reassuring his friends through the pain, as he had seen many a great warrior do? Those were the men he had admired; now was his chance to become one. The fame and glory he had longed for were at hand… Would he have the courage to die for his dream?

Elrohir spoke first.

"This is my mission," he said quietly. "It is my heritage and my duty. Aragorn was my brother; I _cannot_ fail his House."

"And neither can I." Elladan nodded at his brother; both seemed calm and determined, as though having reached some unspoken agreement. Their bond was strong, their loyalty towards each other unwavering, and Lindir knew they had both chosen their path. It lay with the heiress of Elessar, and whatever fate awaited her.

Glorfindel smiled bitterly. "I have nothing to return to anyway," he laughed.

He looked at Urúvion, who glared back defiantly.

"I will not leave you!" he hissed. "I will not run."

"This is not your responsibility." Glorfindel's voice was surprisingly gentle. "You have a family waiting for you. Go home."

"_You_ go home!" Urúvion snapped. He looked around the room. "I have known and followed you all my life," he added more quietly. "All my life I have admired you, and wished I could be as brave and selfless." He glared back at Glorfindel, as though challenging him to laugh. "This is my chance, I will not let it pass. I trusted you this far… I am staying." And he crossed his arms to signify that the conversation was over.

Lindir felt all eyes turn to him, and let the silence linger. Sides had been chosen, fates decided, and he understood where his own path lay. This would be a last stand for the elves of Middle-earth, their very last intervention in the world of Men before their time was truly over… A last stand for everything they had once believed in.

"So be it." He smiled and his mask of indifference slipped into place once again; there was no trace of hesitation in his voice, as though he had never doubted his role in this mission. "My arm and my voice are yours until the end, whatever it may be. Let us watch and await our hour, and then… Let us change history."

* * *

From her porch, Aeve stared at the distant woods with a heart full of envy. Never had the green canopies and the twilight paths held such an attraction before, when she still thought she could walk them unthreatened. Now that the elves had unexpectedly claimed the forest as their territory, and wandered as far as its edge, she dared not come near it.

She was sitting on the bottom step, kicking up dirt with the tip of her boot and trying to come up with a suitable occupation, when a shadow came to hide her from the sunlight. Looking up, Aeve saw Sveyn looking at her with laughter in his eyes. She scowled.

"Go away," she muttered, resuming the dirt-kicking.

"Now the street is free for everyone to walk, Princess," he countered, still smirking.

_Princess…_ Now that was new. Aeve cast a suspicious glance at the annoying boy, wondering whether he knew what had passed in her mind the previous day. If he did, surely there would be no end to the teasing– but, in truth, how could he? Slightly reassured but not trusting Sveyn in the least, Aeve huffed.

"I am not your princess."

"Duchess? Countess? Queen?" Sveyn offered, laughing. "Whichever title do you prefer, little one, to reign over these lands?" He opened his arm in a sweeping gesture, bowing dramatically.

"Go away," Aeve repeated, blushing crimson and cursing inwardly with all the words she knew. "Go bother Ida, for a change."

Her mouth filled with an acid taste at those last words. Of course he should prefer beautiful Ida's company to that of his best friend's sister – one he called "little one", and whom he could only see as a necessary accessory to Kilian, an extension to bear with. Ida, pretty, empty-headed Ida; Aeve's long-lasting awe was suddenly replaced by the writhing serpents of hatred.

"Ah, no," Sveyn suddenly sighed, plopping down beside her. His mouth twisted into a winsome grin when he caught her surprised stare. "Too much success is sometimes tiresome," he winked. "I need a break from the ladies' admiration."

Aeve rolled her eyes and shifted further from him. "Then leave me some rest as well." The heat emanating from his body was utterly distracting, and her voice did not have the edge she would have wanted it to. Aeve scowled at her own silliness, and hoped he would take it for himself. No such luck.

"Ah, but surely I am not bothering you, Princess," Sveyn countered.

"Yes, you are."

His grin widened. "No, I am not."

Aeve turned around to glare at him. "What is wrong with you? Go away, and stop arguing with me!"

"I am not arguing with you."

"Be silent!"

"I am!"

"Aaargh!" Aeve shrieked in frustration, jumping to her feet, her hands balled into fists. "I hate you!"

She could feel herself growing redder by the minute, nearing the beetroot shade her father always reached when he was mad. Not nearly as graceful as Ida's tears when she was unhappy. She willed her hands to relax; she had lost this fight. If Sveyn wanted her angry, he always reached his goal, and there was little she could do now but try to make a dignified exit.

"I am going away, now," she said, her voice trembling with the effort of keeping it low, and turned away.

"Wait, don't!"

Sveyn was watching her from his place on the steps; his smile had grown apologetic.

"Don't leave," he said. "I am sorry."

Aeve gaped at him. In all the years she had known him, this was a first – for Sveyn to apologize, he had to have some greater plan in mind to humiliate or annoy her. But her heart beat faster in her chest at the sight of those grey eyes pleading, her anger faded. Why was it that he possessed this power over her, to send her howling with rage one moment and soften her the next? As though of their own will, her legs carried her back to her place beside him.

"You better be," she grumbled in an attempt to render his victory less evident, pretending she only returned grudgingly.

They sat in silence for a while, both kicking the already fairly bruised ground now. Aeve pondered her new predicament. No doubt it would not take long for him to discover she… No, not _liked_ – that was certainly an overstatement, wasn't it? …That she did not despite him quite as much as before. And then what treacherous use would he find for this new weakness? And how was she supposed to counter it?

Aeve could feel herself tensing up at the slightest movement he made, her body drinking in his presence, his warmth. She hoped they would be seen together – then everyone, Ida included, would know she was not just a little girl, anymore, and that he had chosen her company; but then again, she'd rather they weren't. A stolen glance at his face showed her that he seemed to have relaxed in her presence, his ever-smiling face relaxing into an expression of contemplation. He was looking at the line of trees delimiting the forest, his dark hair falling into his eyes; Aeve pushed down the urge to touch a lock, to feel if a boy's hair was as soft as her own. Knowing Sveyn's personality, she would not have been surprised if the looks came out deceiving, and if the apparent softness turned out to be hard and sharp.

The silence stretched on and, while Sveyn seemed to be perfectly comfortable, Aeve found herself raking her brain for something intelligent to say after her apparent victory in their verbal spar; but there seemed to be no words matching their situation. He would mock her – of that she was certain – if she asked whether he enjoyed sitting on her porch.

"Why are you not in the forest, anyway?" she said eventually, inwardly cringing at the silliness of her question.

But Sveyn only shrugged, his gaze lost in the woods. "You are not there to argue with me," he replied, smiling absently. "So I thought, if you are not there to bring our _conversations_ to me, I had to go to you."

"How thoughtful of you," she said through her teeth; but once again, her tone contradicted her intentions.

He had thought of her! Even though it had been for such a trivial and petty reason, his mind had called up a memory of her, and he had sought her out. Another novelty – usually their disputes only happened as they stumbled upon each other, when he came to see Kilian, or when her feet led her to their clearing.

"Besides, I have found something of yours," he said and, bending to retrieve something from beside the porch, he produced her ball.

Aeve gasped, eyes darting to the dark depths of the forest lurking behind the first line of trees. The elves! They must have found it! In her infatuation with Sveyn's attention, she had completely forgotten what she had seen, and to warn the other children. Last she had seen her toy, it lay in the tall grass amongst the ancient ruins, under the watchful gaze of statues of old. And if Sveyn had wandered as far then he, too, was in danger.

"Where have you found it?" she asked, her voice tight.

Sveyn nodded towards the woods. "Just by the edge of the forest, on the path," he replied, studying her with what looked like growing alarm. "Why? Is something wrong?"

By the edge? Aeve recalled the elves she had seen prowling at the very limits of the woods. It could not be a coincidence; something – someone – had brought back her ball from where she had lost it and left it for anyone to find, far from their territory. Someone had ensured that she would not have to return for it – not that she would have dared to. Could it be, then, that the elves sought only to protect their homes, and cared little for revenge for trespassing? Could it be that, once again, Sveyn had been wrong, and his description of them grossly misled?

Aeve took the ball with shaking hands, but her eyes remained trained on the forest. She knew the truth, now. Elves were real; they still dwelt in the depths of ancient woods, shunning mortals and keeping to themselves, out of sight and memory. Elves were real, and nothing like the stories of bloodlust and cruelty she had always heard. They feared them just as much as mortals feared the elves; feared their ignorance, perhaps, spread by the likes of Sveyn. How many were left? Her heart constricted painfully at the image of centuries of loneliness and hiding.

Elves were real; but their secret was safe with her.


	6. Interlude

Sorry for the long wait - inspiration had first eluded me for a while, then it came back with reinforcements and ideas for other stories in preparation. So let's consider the wait as a price for more stories in the near future... :P

* * *

- Interlude -

_One week later_

Lindir was writing. Scribbling frantically, rather – his hand flew above the parchment, the periodic journey to the inkwell predictable and as brief as possible. There was so much to tell… He was writing everything he knew, everything he could recall. Names, places, ages and circumstances flew through his mind as his hand lay them down on the parchment - settling old scores, as it were. Passing the memories into posterity lest they were lost with the last who remembered.

_Gílarth, Saedos, Thannol, 536 of the Fourth Age, Minas Tirith – war against Rohan_

_Ninhador, 21 of the Fifth Age, Weathertop – bandits_

_Arlas, 118 of the Fifth Age, Bruinen Ford – bandits_

His hand paused slightly before writing down the last two names:

_Gaeris, 119 of the Fifth Age, Rivendell – childbirth_

_Caranhen, 119 of the Fifth Age, Rivendell – childbirth._

He thought that very year had marked the end of their hope. Deeper and deeper they had retreated into the woods, abandoning old alliances and outposts, but still death had found them. Soon they would ride out to meet it, at last – to the end, and to glory.

And what he now wrote would, perhaps, be taken to the Other Shore with by the victors of the Last Battle, to justify their deaths – if one could indeed outweigh the loss of a loved one by a greater cause - or be kept as a reminder; a reminder that kingdoms rise and fall in blood. And above all, should he fall alongside those brave warriors, he hoped that his words would whisper in his voice to those who survived, "This is your King. Your doing. You made this world, you must unmake it if the need comes. Remember those who died for your vision. Remember my warning."


	7. Chapter 6

Many thanks to Lissa, Araloth, vilwarin and erulisse for having corrected this chapter.

* * *

- Chapter 6 -

_Two__ years later_

"But whyyy?" Aeve whined, pushing her voice into higher tones. Her own ears suffered at the sound, but her heart soared with hope as her mother winced. Maybe she would yield, this time. Whining had gotten Aeve a few victories in the past and, even though she was now older and supposedly beyond such tactics, she still used the annoyance she could cause to get what she wanted. Aeve smiled in anticipation: this year, she would attend the Aston fair.

"I said no." Her mother's brows drew together in a stern frown. Setting down the heavy iron pot, she shot her daughter a sharp glance. "And don't give me that look, child. My word is final."

Aeve gasped at the unfairness of such a decision. "But…" she spluttered, "but Kilian will be going! Why can't I?"

Her mother's face grew serious. "Your brother will go nowhere, just like you, if that is of any consolation to you."

From his spot beside the fireplace, Kilian blanched. "What? Why not?" He sprung to his feet. "Mama! You let me come, last time…"

"And you promised I could come along this year!" Aeve chimed in.

There were few things that she and her brother ever agreed on; usually, she and he fought like cat and dog, contradicting each other only for the pleasure of thwarting the sibling's plans. But now was not the time for petty grievances. A serious battle was being fought, and the enemy of her enemy could become her ally, as the saying went.

"Please, Mommy?" Aeve said sweetly, switching tactics.

She looked into her mother's eyes and smiled. This was an act proven infallible over the years, succeeding where head-on demands and tantrums had failed. And so Aeve frowned when her mother only eyed her shrewdly as she stood in the middle of the kitchen twirling her skirts. She was trying to seem young and innocent and sweet; but all Aeve felt was stupid.

"For the love of all, no!" her mother snapped, turning away from Aeve and back to her cooking.

Aeve could see that her mouth was drawn into a thin line, her features hard and forbidding. From her experience, she could see that her mother's words were, indeed, final – and her heart sank with disappointment. There would be no fair for her this year, no showing her new dress – perhaps Sveyn would have gotten to see her so pretty, and would have liked it? Perhaps he would have even told her so… Of course, Ida would probably have been prettier – and Aeve felt a pang of jealousy at the thought - but there was no way of knowing, now. Not when she was to be locked up in her room during such a marvellous, entertaining event.

"Fine," she grumbled, dropping her act and turning on her heels just as Kilian huffed and plopped himself back down by the fireplace to stir the embers with a vicious energy.

Kicking the door open, Aeve stormed outside and sank onto the porch, demonstrating her outrage to all those who could see it. She did not bother to straighten her skirts before sitting down like she had been taught to, and their creases poked uncomfortably into the back of her thigh – but to pluck the fabric from beneath her would look undignified, and undoubtedly ruin the dramatic image she wanted to convey. She was to personify slighted righteousness and broken hope; for Aeve fancied that someone would see her thus and be moved, and plead – or threaten – with her mother to let her attend.

She watched forlornly as people passed her by without sparing her a glance, their boots squelching on the muddy road. Faces were grim, she noted, shoulders slumped and stances wary. The men seemed either quiet, cautious as they went on about their business, or unusually boisterous. A group in particular attracted her attention – they were lounging against the wall of the tavern, speaking loudly; shards of booming voices reached her with the wind. Then one of them looked in her direction and smiled.

It was not a friendly smile, Aeve decided. It was wrong, wicked – not even because of the man's yellow, rotten teeth or his scarred face. It was not because of his armour – Aeve had only seen someone wear one once, long ago; it was a rare sight in their village - and not because of the long sword he wore at his side. He seemed tall, and she was sure he would tower above her should he come closer… Only Aeve did not want him to. She wanted him to look away, for his look on her made her feel uncomfortable. Her skin crawled and Aeve understood that she was scared of him. Not like that time in the forest, where she had feared for her life – no, it was an undefined, gripping disgust.

"Mama!" she shrieked, jumping to her feet, just as her mother ran outside, calling her back sharply.

Aeve scrambled back into the house, closer to the warmth of the fireplace and to the familiar safety of her mother's arms. And as she looked up, she saw the look in her mother's eyes – it transpired in her tired smile, and her shaky, crushing embrace – she was scared too.

And suddenly Aeve realized that something was wrong all around them. The strange men that hung around the tavern of late, speaking of territories and ancient debts, glimmers of blades under their cloaks; the battalions of armoured soldiers that crossed the settlement from time to time, their numbers increasing day by day… And the whispers, the hushed whispers amongst the villagers – all those were messengers of ill. What she used to find entertaining and interesting appeared in another light – a village she did not recognize anymore, an unwelcome change.

* * *

Indeed, times had changed – that much Aeve had understood, even if she could not put her finger on the exact nature of the alteration. A shift in the atmosphere, a stiffness in the people's demeanour were the first signs. Even her parents' faces had betrayed this nervousness, as ordinarily merry and carefree gestures became more measured, and smiles grew tense. Aeve was not allowed to run free anymore, not in the village or into the woods. Her playgrounds had been strictly defined in hushed, strict voices, and she found herself confined to the house or its immediate surroundings, and only in the clear of day. Chores had abounded, some unusual and ridiculously made up to keep her occupied, but Aeve now knew better than to question her orders – questions made her parents angry.

And there was Sveyn. Aeve found herself thinking about him more and more often, wondering where he was and whether he was allowed to roam free while she was locked up in the perimeter around her home. Had he gone into the woods, of late? Had he regaled the other children with new stories? Was Ida amongst them, and did she gape so prettily at his tales? Was Aeve missing out on some precious moments that should have been hers? Her ever-ticking mind weaved the most annoying pictures to her eyes: Ida, smiling and twirling those blond locks of hers around a finger – what a stupid habit! Sveyn and Ida, side by side under the golden branches; Ida, edging towards him as she got scared, and that knowing smile on his lips…

That was a new habit of his. Aeve, who liked to think she knew him well, was annoyed and a strangely worried that she had not managed to figure out its meaning. It was something important, she felt it; but it never seemed to be meant for her. Sveyn had grown distant with her, overly polite and somewhat embarrassed. Aeve knew what it meant. She was yet a little girl to him, his best friend's sister and a necessary accessory to Kilian, especially since the beginning of the troubled times. And the realization pained her more than she cared to admit. She had longed to become something more in his eyes, an individual of her own. Hence the unnumbered fights, the contradictions for the sake of showing some personality – unlike Ida, once again. But he was happy and his usual self around Ida. Not around her.

Even Kilian knew it. He had taken to teasing her about her fondness for Sveyn's stories, suggesting that she sought him out to ask for more – as if Aeve would ever stoop so low! He would laugh at her expression when he compared Ida's prettiness to her own plain looks. Those words hurt – and Aeve, usually so deft at finding a scathing reply, would be left speechless. She would make to hit him and he would deflect her clumsy attempts at retaliation, laughing harder. Then mother would scold him and he would cease, leaving Aeve with crimson cheeks and an open wound in her heart.

Why were boys so cruel?

Sulking, Aeve looked up from her usual place on the steps, where her mother could see her, and noticed Sveyn trudge towards the woods after his father, a bucket and a fishing rod in his hands. Part of her welcomed the sight, toying with the idea to pretend to wander into that direction as well and strike up conversation; but another piece of her feared his newfound aloofness. Surely he would feel disgusted about her attempts at dogging him, and forced to make polite conversation at the same time, if only for the sake of his father's presence and his friendship with Kilian. Aeve swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat at the realization that she had to let him walk away and, burying her hands in her skirts as a protection from the morning cold, lowered her eyes.

"Aeve!"

She froze, jerking her head up in disbelief. But here he was, jogging towards her, bucket and fishing rod entrusted into his father's hands.

"Aeve, 'morning!"

His smile was sincere, for once, and Aeve felt herself responding. The needy part of her basked in his presence, purring like a well-fed cat.

"I got something for you, you know."

"Really." Aeve repressed the pang of anxiety at the mention of a present. She had had her share of such gifts with Kilian, long ago, until her violent reaction to his latest "present" and the memorable correction her father had given Kilian. That time was over now, and they were both older, but Aeve still remembered the instant where she had leaned in, and…

She shuddered.

"You will like it," Sveyn assured her, worry crossing his face for an instant. "I picked them myself," he added after a second, puffing his chest out in pride. "It's the prettiest ones I could find."

Aeve felt something stir inside her chest; elation, yes, and pride that he had thought about her at all. He had bothered to find her a present, and with no reason too – surely it meant something! Biting her lip in anticipation she shifted on the step, trying to edge closer to Sveyn, who was searching the pockets of his trousers. _I bet he never gave Ida gifts_, she triumphed inwardly.

"They might be a little crushed," he mumbled in apology, "But they should be nice all the same. Ready?" he grinned. "Close your eyes."

Again, that pang of fear; but this time it was stifled quickly by her joy, as she nodded readily and reached out for the present. Sveyn's hands, warm and a little rough – Aeve's heart skipped a beat as they wrapped around hers – closed her fingers around a bunch of cool, thin stems. They felt fragile in her hands, and soft, a little worn.

"Smell them," Sveyn whispered, so very close to her face.

So Aeve leaned forward, her nose brushing the delicate petals, breathing in the fragrance… And froze in shock. She knew that smell! Oh, she knew it well, and her stomach twisted in dread. Her eyes flew open, her fingers opening convulsively as the offensive flowers tumbled to the ground, to Sveyn's feet.

"How could you!"

There were no words to express her anguish right then, as she wiped her nose in reflex, smearing the pollen across her face. White buttercups lay in the mud, half-trampled in her hurry to get away from them. Aeve could feel her eyes starting to water, but those were not tears of rage or betrayal. White buttercups… Such a small, innocent flower, rare and precious and pretty, and so deceivingly cruel to her.

"I… I…" Aeve's vision swam as her face began to swell. "I trusted you! And you were just making fun of me!" she shrieked, her voice hoarse as the swelling reached her throat. She lowered her eyes to the finger she had pointed at Sveyn in accusation; it looked fat, gruesome.

Sveyn was staring at her in horror; he seemed to have realized the consequence of his actions, and that his prank had gone way too far; that it had gone bad. "I didn't know, I swear! I had asked…" He stopped suddenly, his face growing pale. He was staring at something behind Aeve, clenching his fists.

"I had asked a friend."

But Aeve did not want to hear anymore of it; and above all, she did not want him to see the monstrous thing she had become: red, puffy, crying uncontrollably. She remembered Kilian's words all too well; she was not pretty, but right then, she had become horrible. "I hate you!" she wailed, turning on her heels and fleeing back into the house. "Mommyyyy!"

From the threshold, Kilian was staring at the scene in bewilderment; Aeve pushed past him and, sobbing, threw herself into her mother's arms. Never again would she trust him. Never again would she desire his attention. He only brought her pain and humiliation and, from this day, she would erase him from her life.


	8. Chapter 7

First of all, sorry for the long wait - this chapter ended up being a pain to write, despite a beginning that I had deemed very promising inspiration-wise. Somehow I knew exactly how the story should evolve, but couldn't, for the life of me, write it! It was incredibly frustrating for me and, I am guessing, for you guys as well. Anyways, here is the next chapter of this story (that actually ended up being much longer than I had planned :P).

Also, huge thanks to Erulisse and Lissa for the beta-reading.

* * *

- Chapter 7 -

Elladan dangled his leg from the branch, wincing slightly as blood returned to the muscles after a long, motionless wait. He was grateful for the knowledge that even as he moved in the tree, he could not be heard or seen from below – not by a mortal, at least. His watching post was not at the edge of the woods, allowing him a little more freedom of movement but less entertainment, as few wandered into the forest these last times. Even the children had made themselves scarce, the little girl included.

She was not so little, now, he reminded himself; not by human standards. She had grown into a graceful woman-child, a little dreamy, a little impertinent. He often caught himself studying her face in search of the expected resemblance to Estel or Arwen, when she laughed or scrunched up her face in concentration; but she reminded him of neither. Elladan often told himself that the bloodline had been much diluted in the course of the last Long Years, and that the traits that he was looking for was an old longing speaking, a desire to see again the faces of those he had loved and lost.

Aeve. Her name was Aeve; he had rolled it off his tongue, regretting its meaninglessness. Once the names given to children were to reflect their unique traits or express the parents' hopes for their offspring. Now they had shortened, easy to shout out rather than prophetic or descriptive. Just like the naming, many a ceremony or custom had been lost during the Dark Times, discarded in their apparent uselessness or purposefully pruned as remnants of a past better forgotten.

Elladan wiggled his toes inside his boot, wondering how Glorfindel was faring in his own tree, somewhere closer to the border with the lands of the mortals. He could imagine the old warrior gracefully lounging on a branch as though it were a comfortable chair of his study, squinting at the sun filtering through the leaves and chasing bugs out of his golden mane. Surely his view was more interesting than Elladan's.

Elladan swallowed, grimacing at the dryness of his throat. His waterskin was long since empty, seeing him thirsty well after noon – time when Maenhíl, a young healer, should have come to relieve him.

The morning had been uneventful, boring even from the point of view of a warrior used to ambushes and action. But such was their everyday lot since the Last Council – such was the name they had given the fateful evening where each and every one of the remaining elves had renewed their allegiance to Elladan and his brother, and vowed not to leave these shores until their task was accomplished. Since that night, they had stood – or rather sat – watch, surveying the village and waiting for the beginning of whatever it was that would threaten this corner of the world. Some of the younger men had complained about the lack of action, itching to throw themselves into battle at last and prove their valour; the older warriors had grumbled at the strategic insignificance of such a task, until Glorfindel himself had set the example by carrying out the first watch. Elladan smiled – imagining how such a move would have had Erestor bewildered, as the lore-master had complained many a time that the Chief of Guards' patience was that of a bored puppy. Erestor, whose feet had not graced the woods with their visit ever since he had peeled off his bloodied armour and entered Elrond's service as a Councillor; no, Erestor was even a greater threat with his acidic humour… But he, too, was gone.

Elladan sighed and then allowed himself a dry cough. Where was Maenhíl, that lazy man?

Without the nagging thirst, he would have deemed it a quite pleasant day, spent in doing nothing and away from his worries of late. The sun was shining through the canopies, filtering softly and providing warmth rather than heat. The trees, who had been left with no-one to speak to and grown wild and wary of strangers, had forgotten his presence and were whispering amongst themselves. Everywhere around him, life's wild heart was beating steadily, slowly… eternally. It was too tempting to imagine, in a moment so out of time, a wholly different context to his occupation; that Imladris still echoed with elven singing, that Arwen still wandered through its gardens. That Father could still be found in his study, often busy and preoccupied but welcoming the distraction with a weary smile.

"Father," Elladan whispered, relishing the illusion for a second. He remembered himself as an elfling, seeking out the memories and unravelling what had lain dormant for so long. He had called his Father differently, then, before he had gained his independence and the right to forget the fuzzy nicknames of childhood.

"Ada."

The difference between him and that elfling was born of seconds rather than years, of striking pain and the horrifying discovery of an animalistic thirst for vengeance and blood within his soul - the same soul where he had always nurtured the tender, if somewhat uncertain in their limits, feelings for his family. He had learnt what it truly meant to love and, subsequently, what to hate felt like. He had killed, and had entered the adult world with his head held high; but he had not realized how much he had missed the sweet abandon of relinquishing that power over himself into the hands of another, to seek protection and council without reservation or shame. _Ada…_

He startled as the distant sounds of someone making their way through the woods reached his ears. Embarrassed by the thought that Maenhíl could have heard his words and thus witnessed his small moment of nostalgia, and determined to give the latecomer a piece of his mind about his lateness and the importance of their watches, Elladan pulled his legs back onto the branch and poised himself, ready to leap to the ground.

Leaves rustled, announcing the visitor; but their whispers grew urgent, loud as bloodied hands tore through the bushes and branches before a man emerged into the sunlight below. His face was pale, haggard, his armour covered in gore. Terrified eyes seemed to search the trees for signs of a pursuit. Elladan held his breath, waiting, watching – for they were not alone in the forest. The man spun around, staggering in the heavy armour; his eyes widened and he lunged forward, reaching out as though to push the very air out of his way, as a soft, short whistle covered the sound of his laboured breath.

The arrow hit him in the neck, piercing the trachea and slicing through the artery. Blood spattered the bark with a soft sound, its metallic smell mixing with those of pine and soil. Broken fingernails dung into the ground in a last convulsive grasp.

Another man tore through the patch of grass below, jumping clumsily over the one fallen despite the armour and his wounds. He slipped slightly on the blood-stained grass and let go of his sword; it fell with a soft thud and buried itself into the upturned earth. His jaw was clenched, his eyes full of absolute horror; he ran for his life. Another whistle tore his left ear off but he disappeared amongst the trees.

Screams neared Elladan's hiding place, piercing the woods as wounded warriors scrambled through, leaving their dead behind, fleeing the battlefield that lay somewhere beyond the forest. Banners were trampled into the earth, weapons and helmets discarded as they tried to vanish into the deceiving safety of the green depths; but arrows and then blades found them.

The ground shook under metal-clad feet.

Men fell, one after another, piled up between the trunks; the agonizing were finished off with a thrust of a sword, but there was no mercy in the wielders' eyes. It was no battle that Elladan was witnessing, it was a slaughter; and he was alone in the middle of the mayhem. He held his breath, heart freezing as the dying looked up and saw him, and breathed in relief as their lips stilled, silent forever. He knew nothing of these men, of their creeds and quarrels, but he felt them dying all around him and, be they evil or just, it was an end he wished upon no-one.

The final blow fell with a wet, sickening sound. Gazing down through a red mist, Elladan prayed for silence; but a song of victory crashed into his ears, rising above the blood-soaked clearing.

* * *

It was long after blessed silence had fallen upon the woods when Elladan finally dared to climb down from his perch. Careful not to step on a limb or into a puddle, he progressed slowly, guided by the rising moon reflecting off the wet grass. No birds sang tonight, as if the woods themselves were ashamed to have become silent, unmoving witnesses of the slaughter. Voiceless, they watched the last sleep of the fallen.

It was then that he saw him, wedged between two piles of dead men, crimson blood on a light-green tunic and golden hair fanned out on tarnished plate. A long, thick arrowshaft protruded from beneath his shoulder where the arrow had found him; the waterskin, still full, lay forgotten on the ground nearby.

"Maenhíl!" Elladan whispered and knelt, reaching out to pull the body of the healer from under the carcasses. The once supple, strong limbs had gone limp, the hopeful smile wiped off of an ashen face. Elladan averted his gaze.

_Oh, Maenhíl_. So very young and eager, so very inexperienced. Elladan had sent him into danger untrained, unaccompanied. He had died alone, amongst strangers. _He must have gotten caught between the two armies_, Elladan thought as he hoisted the body upon his shoulders, ignoring the lukewarm trickle down his neck. Perhaps Lindir had been right, he thought. It had not been Maenhíl's battle to fight, no more than it was Urúvion's or even Glorfindel's. It was not too late – they could still sail and leave Middle-earth to its fate. But what would then become of Estel's bloodline? Would Aeve's body be discarded in the middle of the village, abused and broken as he had seen it?

He had a choice, one that he hated. Friends and kin against those of his bloodline that he did not know but had sworn to protect, and felt so strangely connected to. Danger and duty on both sides, the desire to bring his men safely to their families and oaths of loyalty sworn long ago to his foster brother. Mayhap it would have been easier, had it been all decided for him… But Elladan knew he would have rebelled against the outcome, whatever it was.

* * *

They buried Maenhíl in the quivering light of the torches, beneath a lonely willow whose roots ran so deep into the earth that they remembered the elfling that now lay in their embrace. The wind itself remained silent, though Lindir had always remembered that particular grove to be full of its whispers.

He stole a glance of the faces surrounding him: grief, horror. Shame. Remorse. He wanted to tell them to brace themselves for worse, for this could only be the beginning of a long score-keeping on their side: a price that would be settled soul after soul, claimed one by one in exchange for victories. But he bit his tongue, holding back the words no-one wanted to hear. Soon he would have to say them. Soon, but not now.

The elves were grieving. Sorrow and pain rolled from the skin of each and every man present in waves; Lindir could almost taste them. He listened to the prayers, inaudible in their resignation and barely breaking the silence, watched the feverish moving of the lips.

"Farewell, brother," Urúvion whispered above the assembly, "short may be your stay in Bannoth, and swift your return to your family."

Lindir shuffled on his feet as the nightly fog descended into the grove, whirling around their ankles and ghosting over the ground. There was something in the atmosphere; an ancient sorrow that poured from the severing of that link between close souls, but also a growing anger. Minds were restless, hands clenching and unclenching under the disguise offered by the cloaks. Perhaps some of the blood spilled that day still hung in the air, or perhaps they grew tired of bearing their losses in silence.

Lindir could feel it as well, in the earth and in the wind. Too many of their loved ones lay buried in the ground around them.

His time had come. The elves were grieving, they were sad. He had to make them angry.

"Sing, Lindir," Elrohir said quietly, shivering beneath his cloak. "Sing something for Maenhíl."

The air was growing colder, stiller, as though Imladris itself was holding its breath. Lindir closed his eyes briefly, stretching the muscles of his back that had gone stiff during the ceremony. Thoughts and words crystallized in his head, and he knew what he had to do. He inhaled deeply, savouring the cold burn in his throat.

"No."

He felt his lips stretch into a grimace of contempt. "No, I will not sing. Not now. I will not lie any longer, and disguise the deaths of our beloved under cloaks of glory. Maenhíl did not die a warrior's death; he was murdered, deprived of his right to die with honour."

Shocked silence welcomed his declaration. Urúvion inhaled sharply, his young face twisted into a scowl. "Are you calling him a coward?"

"I am calling him a victim," Lindir retorted. "He went quietly, swordless and unprepared."

Elladan's face darkened, Glorfindel's hand stiffened on the hilt of his sword - and Lindir triumphed. They were ready.

"Maenhíl was a child. He should have lived out his life and had the opportunity to choose his path; it lay not in the battlefield. It lay here, in Rivendell, amongst those of his family. It lay overseas, in the blessed realms of our forefathers. It lay in peace, not in war."

"It is my fault." Elrohir smiled bitterly, stepping forward and laying a pacifying hand on Urúvion's shoulder. His brother followed suit, expression warning and grim, ready to defend his twin. "I have held all of you here, in this world of _war_, because of an oath that was not yours to fulfil." Elrohir turned a calm face to Lindir. "Maenhíl's death, and all the others before him, lie on my conscience."

"You would absolve Men of all responsibility, then?" someone called out. The voice was muffled by the growing murmurs of the assembly. "When last I looked, they were already prone to envy and warmongering."

Glorfindel spun around, eyes narrowing. "And when last I looked, Gwillin, you were quite content with merely following orders. Why the sudden courage?"

"Glorfindel…" Elrohir hissed warningly, but Gwillin was quick to cut him off:

"Because I, unlike you, cannot afford the luxury of dying. I have a wife and a child in the East – again, unlike you. I do not live for war."

"Enough!" Urúvion cried before Glorfindel could reply, rushing forward. "Enough. Will you quarrel on Maenhíl's grave? If you will not listen to our Lord, then listen to me, for all my youth. Look at you. Listen to yourself. If not for the ears, one would mistake you for Men! And you, Lindir…" Urúvion turned to face him. "What treachery is this? You used to sing of love, to speak of friendship, and now you seek to turn us against one another?

"Treachery?" Lindir repeated quietly. "No." He turned to face Elrohir again. "Maenhíl is dead. His name will be added to the list of those who have fallen on these shores since your father's leave. But I shall need more ink before we sail."

He took another step towards Elrohir, looking over his shoulder to meet Elladan's gaze. "I shall add Elladan to the list..."

"You dare!" Urúvion gasped.

"…and you, Urúvion. And you, Gwillin. Mayhap someone else will take up the quill to scribble my name at the bottom of the parchment. For the moment may come, Elrohir, when your brother is dead, and when Glorfindel here lays in a pool of his own blood, his sword clutched in his hand in the most heroic manner. Only you still stand, facing your enemy who, too, is alone. I want you to strike, to not hesitate, unburdened by despair or grief. I want you to remember what we died for, to raise your blade and fulfil that oath. Else we will have longed and wandered – and fallen – in vain."

He moved quickly, dropping to his knees before Elrohir and Elladan. "No-one here is more loyal to you than me, my Lords. I am prepared to incur your wrath, if only it prepares you for your task. Such is my duty, and I would be a poor servant, should I allow myself to give in to the luxury of indulgence. Strike me down if you think me disloyal; strike me down this instant, but remember my words. This is only the beginning."


	9. Chapter 8

Well. Here I am again, after months of procrastinating (when was the last time I updated this? I can't remember). I do owe you guys an apology for such a delay - so, sorry for that *sheepish smile*. If it is of any consolation, the next chapter is already undergoing corrections and should follow soon. I intend to finish this story quickly, it's been haunting my hard drive for long enough.

Enjoy this chapter, and huge thanks in advance for those who are still following this.

* * *

- Chapter 8 -

"Stay here!" Mother hissed, tightening her grip on Aeve's arm. She gave it a shake to emphasize her words, and the unexpected pull almost tipped Aeve off balance. "Stay. Hide. Whatever you do, whatever you _hear_, don't leave the house. Do you understand?"

"Mama!" Aeve whimpered, frightened by the urgency in her mother's voice. "Don't go out there!" Her wrist was painful but she dared not protest. Her mother's eyes were filled with a fear that Aeve had never seen before, a deep, sharp terror that commanded silence.

"I must find your father." Mother's face was grim but determined. "Aeve, you must stay hidden! Lock the door after me." A tired, painful smile, a brief touch to Aeve's cheek and she was gone, her skirts disappearing out the barely opened door.

"Mama!" Aeve whispered, leaning against the wood. Then she remembered and, springing to her feet, slid the latch into place with trembling fingers. Fear washed over her again.

_They have taken Father._

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out his bellows as armed, armoured men had dragged him away from the porch of the house; her mother's single, smothered sob as she had clamped her hands over her mouth and stumbled back into the house, shaking her head at Aeve while her eyes pleaded her daughter not to move. She remembered how her mother had lunged herself at Kilian, hands like claws as she had dragged him back into the house. Her eyes had been wild then, as she had pinned him against the wall, whispering against the hand she held on his mouth:

"Don't! or they'll take you away as well."

Kilian had fought her in silence, hitting her at times, trying to push her off, and Aeve had stood there, seeing her gentle mother turn strong and fierce as she battled her own son, smothering his pride and his oaths of revenge; watching what was left of her family grieve in fear.

It had begun as the army had come out of the woods, trampling Aeve's childhood playground places and marching into the village under the authority of a distant lord, whose banners now floated in the weak breeze above the tavern. The change had been brutal enough for Aeve to notice, and recent enough for her to not yet be used to it and consider the less unpleasant days as good ones. Soldiers had given the villagers the same level of consideration they reserved for the food and cattle they took; to be looked into the teeth. The better, stronger had been drafted, the others left to make do with what resources were left in the face of the upcoming winter.

Those who had rebelled had been broken, those willing to cooperate robbed of everything they had. Many had fled into the mountains, for the fear of the forest depths was kept strong by stories. The settlement had wasted away in the space of a month. Soon the army would march on, but Aeve felt that her village was dying, drained of its strength, beaten and down.

They would not rebuild and move on.

The sound of heavy boots marching outside made her freeze. The metal-rimmed sound of footsteps skirted their house and she held her breath, but the loud-voiced men passed their house. Maybe they knew there was nothing left to take.

Aeve allowed herself to relax a little as she pulled her knees against her chest in an attempt to find some comfort against the feeling of loneliness and danger. Mother was gone too, now, and she was on her own.

Kilian had left during the night, his anger settled into a sullen silence as he swore he would not attempt to free their father from the draft or stage revenge against the men who had taken him. He was to find Sveyn and reach the woods; only Aeve knew he would not wait for his friend, for Kilian and Sveyn were not talking anymore.

It had all started when her brother had come home with a black eye and broken lip; Mother had panicked, Aeve remembered, tearing at her father with shrill accusations and pleas of leaving the village while father had scratched his beard in confusion.

"Peace, woman," he had said, prying his wife from Kilian. "Peace, let him speak."

But Kilian had stood, sulking, a cold towel pressed to his face; he had refused to say whom he had fought with, and Aeve had seen her father's face darken. "I'll speak to the folk," he had said as he had donned his heavy cloak, "someone'll know who did that to the lad."

As it had turned out, it was Sveyn's fist that had left its mark on Kilian's eye – two fingers broken in the process - and Kilian's hands that had scratched Sveyn's face into a criss-cross of angry red lines. "Boys fight," Father had shrugged as he had returned, pacifying Aeve's reluctant mother. "Leave'em be, they'll be causing trouble together again in no time."

But it seemed that the friendship between the two had been severed forever and, curiouser still, neither of them would speak a word about it.

At first, Aeve had felt a surge of dark satisfaction at the knowledge that Sveyn had, in a way, gotten what he deserved for his treachery and meanness. Though unrelated to her own grievance, her brother's fists had brought her a small measure of justice, something that she relished each time she remembered Sveyn's poisoned gift. She tried to forbid herself to dwell on the memory, but the humiliation, the burn of disappointment and anger at her own foolishness was still fresh.

Each time she saw the scratches, she hoped they ached as much as she did.

He did not come to their house anymore, and Kilian did not mention him. He had vanished from her life just like she used to hope he would… But Aeve was finding she was not as happy as she ought to be.

Sveyn, Father, Kilian… Now her mother was gone as well, and Aeve was alone. It was not a loneliness she was used to; there was danger and uncertainty, and she knew she had to finally be an adult, for the soldiers would treat her like a grown woman if they found her.

Something creaked in the empty house and Aeve stilled, her breath hitched in her throat. Wood scraped against wood in what she knew was a window opening in the next room.

_Stay hidden_, her mother had instructed, but how did one hide from an intruder in their own house? She dared not breathe, as the surrounding silence would betray her location. Armed men had come and taken what they wanted, and maybe one of them had decided she was for the taking as well. Her instinct screamed to run while fear glued her to the floor. Slowly she started crawling towards the door of the cellar, all muscles tense with the effort of such a cautious, silent progression. Breathe in – slowly, a hand to the floor. The dust felt soft and dry beneath her sweaty palm. Breathe out, slide a knee forward. Breathe in…

Then she heard the intruder curse softly.

Relief washed over her. Kilian, it had to be Kilian! He was back and he would protect her, or perhaps take her away into the woods – she was not afraid. Pushing herself off the floor she shoved the door open, and froze.

"What are _you_ doing here?" she spat.

oOoOo

The forest was colder, wilder than the woods Lindir knew, shaped for the creatures that used to inhabit it and that were so different from Men or Elves. The ground itself was tortured by crevices and deep holes that buried themselves deeper even in the form of caves; cliffs hung above crevices, as though the land could not settle on a middle ground between the sky and the abyss. The rocky peaks that rose towards the canopies bore the vestiges of ruined fortresses, their stones still permeated by the primitive magic that used to animate the forest's inhabitants.

The Trollshaws.

Somehow - unbeknownst to him, almost - a song made its way into his mind, perhaps whispered to his ear by the wind, suggested by the woods themselves; he merely repeated it under his breath as he walked behind Glorfindel:

_Here darkness rules, where old __things dwell_

_Where holds the world's most ancient spell_

_The silence reigns in forest veins_

_And shadows fly__ between the fells_

_This border crossed dissolves the vain,_

_The ephemeral Mortal reign_

_Long after all the Kingdoms fall_

_T__he woods shall still alive remain_

_The__ heart beats strong, the roots grow deep_

_The__ bones are worn but sharp and steep_

_The __shaws are old, their waters cold_

_Beneath the stone where dark things sleep_

The forest was welcoming the Old Blood; it wanted to be heard. Yes, Lindir thought, he could sit here and write, and sing, and play. He could find his place under the hidden stars, and wander the woods again with a light heart and eyes filled with renewed curiosity… But not now; there were more pressing matters at hand.

The mission he and Glorfindel had been entrusted with was simple. They had discovered, by listening in to the men stationed in the village, that a rebellion had risen against the lord of these lands, and that their leader had claims to the crown. The lord had gathered his army and marched against the rebels and, while the heiress of Aragorn was relatively safe for the moment, the elves needed to know more about the conflict and its players so that their strike, if such a move was required, would be efficient and deadly. Infiltrating rebel camp had seemed like the simplest plan to gain the required information.

Ahead of him, Glorfindel raised a fisted arm and spun around, nodding towards the path they had just travelled, and signalling to Lindir for silence. "Men," he mouthed, reaching out to lift one of the branches and disappearing beneath it. Lindir jumped into the thick vegetation bordering the path; he held the branches as he slid between them so that they would not continue to sway after he passed and betray his presence. There was no need to hold his breath as he backed down deeper into the bushes, as the men prowling these woods seemed confident in their sentinels' ability to detect unwelcomed visitors and therefore did not bother to stay on their guard as well, but still he felt himself inhale slower, as if to blend in with the wind that tousled the leaves around him.

The two men were armed and wore a rudimentary, ill-adjusted armour – they were simple peasants, Lindir understood, farmers and stable-hands who were given weapons and summarily trained in their wielding, which gave them confidence enough to boast but no experience or discipline. They passed him by, laughing and talking loudly; something that would have been a certain suicide an Age ago in these very woods – such loud creatures would have quickly been noticed and plucked for dinner by the trolls that had made the forest their home.

But trolls too had gone from this world.

He turned his head to see Glorfindel purse his mouth in disapproval just beside him. The warrior nodded towards the path that was disappearing in the lush greenery; there, amidst the trees, shone fires – beacons signalling the entrance gates to the rebel camp. The light reflected on the dark wood of a strong gate, on the barbed wire that had been wrapped around the beams holding it closed and on the armour of the two guards that stood watch before it.

Still laughing, the two newcomers approached the gates; one of the guards stepped forward to greet them, but instead reached out to smack the closest man over the back of his head. His metal-rimmed gauntlet cracked loudly as it collided with flesh.

"The hell?" the man yelped, jumping back and rubbing his neck.

"Shut it," the guard growled. "Wanna let the whole woods know that we're based here? No? Then keep your squawking down and get inside."

"Bastard," the offended man grumbled but obeyed nevertheless, edging around the guard as if expecting a retaliation for the insult.

"Mercenary," Glorfindel whispered. "Carries his weapons with ease and familiarity." His eyes scanned the gate and the canopies above it. "There are more watchmen up left and right of the gate; they may be as green as those two, or there may be more hired swords amongst them." He shook his head. "We cannot pass through here."

Still crouching, Lindir twisted around to examine the cliff that formed a wall further back, covered in thick, well-fed vines. It seemed to tower above the nearby walls of the camp but was not as tall as to appear through the curtain of trees and expose them to the eyes of the sentinels.

"We can climb," he suggested in a low voice. "We will be able to get a better view of the camp as well as overhear their conversations. Mayhap we will learn of their plans and discover who leads them."

Glorfindel considered it for an instant then nodded, and his lips twisted into a smile. "I hope you have not lost your skill," he said. "Traipsing the path under their noses was easy enough, but on that wall we will be sitting ducks should they spot us."

"They will not," Lindir grinned and unbuckled his belt. He pulled off his scabbard, wrapping the leather band around it, and tied the belt across his chest so that the sword hung in his back. The stress of avoiding being seen was enough; he was not about to add the sword scraping the stone to the odds against them, or risk a fall from tripping over his own blade.

The stone was smooth, but not impossible to climb; a long time ago, this particular cliff had probably been cloven in two, a huge slate shaved off by some cataclysmic event, and the remaining façade bore the marks of the scission. Narrow ledges ran across the stone wall, offering enough handholds for a good climber, and the vines covering the façade could also provide support if they were healthy and strong enough.

Lindir cast a last look towards the gates and the trees that Glorfindel had pointed out as watch platforms and, deeming it safe, stood up. He ran his hands over the cool stone surface, and his fingers quickly found a sufficient grasp to haul himself up. He remembered his younger days, when he and Elladan, Elrohir and a few other elflings used to make it a challenge escalading the ravines surrounding Imladris. They were usually caught by a stern Glorfindel and brought back to a sterner Erestor and, on one occasion, Lindir had refused to obey the Chief of Guards' incentive to climb back down. He had stubbornly remained glued to the façade, mocking Glorfindel and the heavy armour that forbade him to haul the elfling off the wall by the ear, until night had fallen and his limbs had turned blue and numb. He had fallen down, straight into the arms of Glorfindel, who had camped there all evening.

Lindir grinned and, shifting his weight, reached out for the next hold.

Straight beneath him, he heard Glorfindel's voice, as if the warrior had shared his thoughts: "Don't go camping midway, now. The guards are about to be relieved, there will be twice as many people on those platforms to see us."

"Pity," Lindir offered sarcastically, "I was just starting to like it here."

His heart, that had raced in the first minutes of climbing at the thought of being seen, gradually calmed down to settle into a steady, strong beat. His muscles moved without effort, his progress was quick and fluid. He felt young again, and powerful. And, when a vine broke under his foot, showering Glorfindel with leaves and rubble and earning him a curse, he laughed.

The top of the cliff was narrow but relatively flat. Lindir swung his body across the edge and rolled onto his belly, and waited for Glorfindel to join him. Together they surveyed the camp.

"They are many," Glorfindel commented gloomily as he picked twigs out of his hair. "And well-organized." He pointed towards the centre of the camp: "The leader's tent. But there is no way of reaching it before dark."

"They are not mere bandits, either," Lindir added.

He watched the men stroll around the camp, each and every one with his own purpose. The scene would have seemed peaceful, domestic almost, if not for the sound of the smith hammering away at a red-hot sword, a pile of blades already ready on a weapon stand nearby, or the swishing of arrows that hit their mark as new recruits were trained in archery. These were men of war, but they were organized and, from what he could see, well-liked by the villagers from the other side of the forest.

"They have the support of the farmers beyond the shaws," he said, nodding towards a group of soldiers carrying armfuls of food. "Those are not stolen goods – the bread has been carefully packed away so that it does not harden. The people have given it away of their free will."

At that very moment, the flaps of the tent were pulled aside and a man stepped out. His armour was as old as those of his men, but unlike theirs it fit him perfectly, denoting a warrior who had worn it often enough into battle to know where to adjust it. He was neither young nor old, or rather he should have looked young; but his stance was too proud to be inexperienced, his face wore more scars than it should have and his grey eyes were feverish, haunted.

The camp activities around him stopped as men went to greet him, bowing slightly as they approached him; the younger recruits watched him with expectation, hoping he would acknowledge their talent or precision. And he spoke to them all, nodding at their words, listening to their complaints, approving, noticing, recognizing.

For all the simplicity of his armour, he looked positively kingly, Lindir thought.

"I give you a rebel with a cause," Glorfindel whispered next to him.

"And that cause we need to discover," Lindir added, his eyes on the rebel leader. He watched him round up his men and give orders for departure. "He looks like…"

He frowned. "It cannot be…" He cast a glance at Glorfindel who, too, seemed to be studying the features of the man with great attention.

"If not for the blond hair…" Glorfindel began, then shook his head. "It is like seeing him again. The way he moves, the way he speaks to his men… I remember training him to be as good a captain like it was yesterday."

"And who trained this man?" Lindir wondered aloud. "Who made him into the leader he is, who forged his fate?" _And who will undo it?_

The looked at each other in confusion. Lindir felt his certainty about the simplicity of his mission – and their cause – ebb away, undermined by their discovery. For the man leading the rebels was the very image of one they had all loved and mourned, and whose bloodline they were ready to fight to protect.

"We must discover who he is," Glorfindel said, his voice quiet but full of resolve. "I hope we are wrong about him; I hope it is not too late."


	10. Chapter 9

- Chapter 9 -

Sveyn spun around, a dagger raised to strike. His hair was dishevelled, his clothes torn in places. He looked tired and hungry, and yet Aeve could not summon any compassion for him. The fact that he was now threatening her with a weapon – deep inside she knew he had no intention of hurting her, but the vexed part of her pointed out that since he was an intruder she should by all rights feel outraged – was an additional offense.

Aeve stared him down; she could feel her hands ball into fists and rage rise in her throat as acid as bile.

"_I said_, what are you doing here?" she hissed again, advancing upon him.

"Aeve." He smiled – a smile she used to find charming, one that used to set her heart aflutter; but it did not work anymore, she told herself firmly, ignoring the tickling in her chest. Now he was only trying to get her to lower her guard, to allow him take control of the situation.

"I… Well, it so happens that I am in dire need of your assistance – I seek refuge, as it were." He bowed with a flourish despite his apparent exhaustion, and Aeve scowled. Even now he was mocking her.

"You are not welcome here," she said coldly. "Get out of my house."

"I can't… Shit!" He glanced out the window and immediately sat down, pushing himself against the wall, dagger clutched to his chest and jaw set in resolution.

Aeve raised her eyes to the window to see a group of soldiers walk by her house. They did not seem to notice her; but still her heart jumped in her chest, and her knees felt the urge to send her to the floor as well. She saw Sveyn look up, craning his neck to hear the soldiers' steps fade away. For an instant his eyes flickered shut, his lips moved in some silent prayer as he held that dagger so close to his heart. He looked worn, desperate; his tricks could not save him from the war.

"You are on the run, aren't you?" she stated.

"As I told you, I need to hide for a few days. Just a little longer…" Sveyn's voice had lost its smoothness. He glanced hopefully towards the kitchen, licked his lips. "And some food, if you have any to spare."

"Of course, I… That is, no." Aeve shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. Her first reaction had been to give in to that feeling of empathy, to sympathize with his desperate-roguish-and-charming act. "No, come to think of it, I have no food to spare for you. Nor do you have a place in my house."

"Aeve, be reasonable. You know I can't go out there, don't you? You know they'll shackle me the minute they see me, and cart me off with the other poor sods they've drafted."

"Reasonable? _I _am being unreasonable?"

The nerve of the man! She felt her own jaw clench in rage, but this time she was not as helpless. She had leverage, and would take great pleasure in using it. It was time he learnt his pranks and jabs came with a price.

"Shh!" He reached out to her, motioning to keep her voice down, but out of pure spite she continued:

"_I_ am being unreasonable in feeling threatened, _in my own house_, as you wave that blade around?" Her voice was rising into the higher notes, but she didn't care.

Sveyn seemed genuinely appalled by the accusation. He stashed the dagger away and raised his hands as if to prove he was unarmed again.

"You know I would never hurt you, right?"

She scoffed. "But you already have! You have, Sveyn, or don't you remember that sweet, sweet gift you gave me?" Aeve could taste the venom of that memory on her lips, hear its hiss in her voice. It gave her power, fed her righteous anger.

"Aeve please! Stop yelling, they'll hear you!" he whispered urgently, casting fearful glances towards the window.

She was standing before him now, looking down and watching his face decompose as she raised her voice. It was cruel, Aeve realized, smothering the pang of shame; but so very rewarding. She had the power now, she could stop this whenever she wanted.

"So what? Let them hear, your fears are not my problem. If you hoped I'd forgive and forget your little amusement, you're very mistaken, Sveyn Innerney."

"Wha…" He frowned. "Wait, you'd let them take me only to get revenge for that? How immature are you?"

He dared! He was insulting her now, expecting her to back away, perhaps, to mellow down like the young, impressionable thing he thought she was. Well, she would show him!

"Oh, what did you expect? I'm just a little girl, aren't I? Immature and _unreasonable_. Now consider this a temper tantrum, and get out of here!"

She shrieked out those last words as she slapped her hands against her thighs in a final sign of determination. He leapt to his feet and tried to grab them.

"Don't you understand? I'm a tavern owner's son, for the Powers' sake, I'm no soldier! If I set foot on that battlefield I'll die!"

"I don't care, you deserve it!"

"Aeve, stop! What is it that you want, you want me to beg? I'll beg, I swear, please, just calm down!" He scooped her up into his arms as she tried to hit him; her fists impacted with his chest but he trapped her against him, whispering feverishly into her ear: "Please. Please. Aeve, please, quiet."

Aeve felt him bury his face into her hair; from so close he smelled like sweat, but there was another scent underneath the acrid smell; warmer, fresher. Her anger started to fade and she struggled to maintain it; she would not yield, if only out of principle. Exhausted now, she ceased to fight him long enough to hear his next words:

"I am so sorry. Kilian – I swear he told me those buttercups were your favourite. I hoped so much you'd like them, and then things went so wrong… The idiot thought it'd be a good laugh. Aeve, I swear I never meant to hurt you." She could tell he was smiling against her hair when he continued:

"You're beautiful when you're mad."

She froze in his arms, then looked up into his face. His smile faded slowly, grey eyes darkening. He was so close, so very… very close…

It was then that the door came crashing down.

Aeve jumped; Sveyn pulled her behind him, his dagger in his hand again, but it looked ridiculous in comparison to the soldiers' swords and armour.

"There, seize him!" ordered the one who seemed to be in command, and they all advanced upon Sveyn.

"Thought you'd escape your duties, huh?" the captain said, grinning. Aeve's heart constricted in her chest when she recognized him as the same man who had been leering at her from the tavern porch. "Thought you could hide from your lord's service?"

Sveyn snarled as he pushed himself away from her, lunging for the door. His way was blocked, the small room crowded by the bulky bodies. He fought without a word, trying to slash away at their hands and faces, but they were too many. The soldiers encircled him, gripped his arms from behind as one of the men tore the dagger from the fingers that convulsively held on to it.

"Well, here's news for you, boy."

Aeve shrieked as the captain's metal-encrusted gauntlet collided with Sveyn's ribs. Sveyn doubled over with a grunt, his eyes pressed shut in what she imagined to be agony. She lunged forward, reaching out madly to merely _touch_ him, let him know she wished to alleviate the pain – she was not as foolish to believe she could fight off those men on her own.

The captain only extended his arm and she came crashing into it. It felt like running into a wooden beam; then he pushed her back. Aeve staggered and fell backwards, out of breath and slightly dizzy, landing on her arse and scraping her hands on the rough wooden floor.

"Don't hurt her!" Sveyn screamed before another blow sent his head flying to the side with a loud crack. The soldiers shoved him forward with a gloomy cheer, as though he had slumped backwards with the sole purpose of annoying them. Aeve felt tears well up in her eyes when she saw his bloody mouth.

"Now, what makes you think I don't mean to… thank her, instead?" the captain drawled, mock-sauntering up to Sveyn to stare him down. "After all, she helped us greatly in finding you – if not for your… lovers' quarrel, we'd never thought to search this house again. Now take him away," the captain added, his voice laced with satisfaction.

Aeve thought she heard a sob escape her lips – she could not know for sure, with the blood roaring in her ears. _Her_ fault. She had allowed all of it to happen, through her pettiness and thirst for revenge against a stupid, childish prank. Where was that control she had prided herself with? Where was the joy of dominance? It had all fallen into ashes, and the horror of the situation dawned upon her.

There was no turning back time.

"Now you guys run ahead," the captain said quietly and turned to face her, "I'll have a moment with the girl."

Aeve knew that the look of horror on Sveyn's face reflected her own. She scuttled backwards until she hit the wall and then, out of sheer instinct, tried to push herself even further, as though she could fall through wood and stone.

"No!" Sveyn yelled. "Don't touch her!" He fought the soldiers restraining him with renewed vigour, grabbing the doorway beams and throwing punches whenever he could free an arm.

His screams died in the distance.

"Now, now." The man's voice was hoarse as he addressed her; he was taking his time, approaching her with cautious steps, smiling even, as though he thought she could be reassured by the low tone or the apparent benevolence. Aeve felt bile rise to her lips as he took another step towards her, his forehead sweaty, his hand sliding to caress the growing bulge beneath his codpiece.

"You did the right thing," he said, "you are a good girl, aren't you?" He crouched before her and his smell washed over her. He stank of sweat as well, but this time it was an utterly revolting and alien stench. Aeve caught a glimpse of coarse, black hairs on his chest as he ran a trembling hand across it.

She shook her head as though denying it all, refusing to be present in that room. She pressed herself against the wall, eyes darting around the room for an escape but not quite daring to move, for if he caught her… If he touched her…

If only she had listened to Sveyn…

"Get off my daughter!"

"Mama!" Aeve screamed, suddenly finding the courage to push herself away from the floor and past the man. He made no move to grab her; he only smiled, his eyes following her. "Mama!" And she flung herself into her mother's ready arms, shaking with dread and sobbing.

It was over, she was safe; but she felt little relief. Because of her, Sveyn would die - because he was not a soldier, not a warrior. He was just a boy.

If only she had listened…

oOoOo

Lindir watched the ant stroll across the stony surface, following it with his eyes until the insect disappeared into a crack. He looked up to survey the camp once again, aware of its overused literary resemblance to an ant hill. Men did indeed hurry about, criss-crossing the camp surface as they scurried from one station to another.

He could only agree with Glorfindel on the military-like organization of the camp: the tents were set on both sides, separated by an alley that allowed easy passage from one gate to another. The wooden walls were made of sharp spikes, and any beams of ropes that could have served as a hold had been reinforced with barbed wire. Sentries were well-armed, well-schooled and vigilant – Lindir could not blame them for not having spotted the two scouts. There were no whores in the camp, and the wastes were also dealt with so that no disease would erupt amongst the men. And, though the general level of weapon mastery was low, the new and the less skilled amongst the recruits were trained without any bullying or mockery, as was wont in many tribes and military organizations. If he deduced that the soldiers behaved in the way exemplified by their leader, he could only bow – metaphorically, of course – to the man.

"A pity," Glorfindel shook his head. "He is a good captain. He would make a good king, should his claims to the crown be successful."

"I can imagine your pain at such a waste of talent," Lindir said, trying to keep the sarcasm level at match with his companion's sense of humour. "And maybe they should be," he added. "We could adopt him too - maybe there is a compromise between saving the heiress to an illustrious bloodline and giving this land a good king."

His bright smile was rewarded with a pointed look. "Watch out, Lindir, your tongue went loose again."

Lindir rolled his eyes. "You are the most unimaginative man I ever met."

The day was nearing its end, the sky had darkened; the lights of the torches around the camp pointed out with greater precision the previously located sentry posts, and the crackling of the flames would make their infiltration easier still, as they could give a good idea of the carrier's trajectory.

Luck was on their side – the leader and most of his men had marched out the south-eastern gate at noon after a speech that had roused a loud cheering from the small army.

"Men," he had said, "Today may be the day when we make the first step towards restoring what was lost. It may be – for the men marching against us are greater in number, they are better armed, they are trained for war." He had paused, looking around to meet the eyes of his men – those who held his gaze as well as those who looked away, their faces sweaty with fear. "We are not men anymore - we are swords. We are tools of revolution. A blade does not fear nor does it grieve. You can break it, but not make it despair or hesitate. Let them wish that their swords were as sharp and merciless as we are. Let them try to stare us down and look away. Let them see and be afraid of what we have become. For the world as we know it _must_ cease to be." He had smiled then and donned his helmet. "Come with me, my brothers. We will change history."

Lindir and Glorfindel had exchanged looks, remembering all too well another leader who had sought to end a world gone dark and resurrect the glory of the past. He had become King of his land, counting Elves amongst his allies. He had succeeded; but those who had remained after him had failed to protect his heritage.

"We must move now," Glorfindel whispered by his side. "It is as dark as it can get, and the sooner we are back the better."

They waited until the sentries circling the camp passed each other, the distance between the lights quickly falling into darkness. Then Lindir slid over the edge of the cliff that faced the wall of the camp and, finding a grip for both his hands, eased himself down. His boots scraped the stone as he searched the surface for a footing. Climbing down was trickier than going up, just like he remembered; once or twice, his knees collided with the cliff in his attempts to find the next ledge in the surrounding darkness and he had to bite back a curse.

His only consolation was that Glorfindel was experiencing as many difficulties as he did.

"Never again," the warrior growled above him, spitting out a lock of hair that had gotten into his mouth and that he had been unable to remove.

Only a short strip of vegetation-covered ground separated them from the camp wall; here the vines grew thick and treacherous to an inattentive walker - the men had not bothered to clear out the surface, as no attack was evidently expected from that cliff-protected side. Lindir and Glorfindel covered the distance in big leaps and leaned against the wooden logs so that the circles of light cast by the sentries' torches would not reveal their presence.

Lindir turned his head to examine the barbs that jutted out of the wall surface just beside his face. The wall was held together by thick rope that could offer grips and footholds; but it had been wrapped in that thick, crudely cut wire that would mercilessly shred any unprotected skin.

Once again he unbuckled his belt and lowered his sheathed sword to the ground.

"Unstrap yours," he muttered, "and give it to me. I will send both over once I am inside."

"I don't like this," Glorfindel grumbled. "Entering the camp unarmed is folly."

"Quickly in, quickly out," Lindir grinned.

He slid his own belt under the first strands of wire and wrapped the leather bands around his right wrist, tying himself to the wire braid. The belt was narrow enough to fit between the barbs and resistant enough to hold his weight – he gave it a tug to test it before taking a cautious step onto the lowest knot. It was slippery under his foot and he had to put his entire weight on his toes, but it was enough. Lindir pulled, hoisting himself up onto the wall and as close as he could to the wooden beams so that his weight would not pull him backwards . He held his breath as the sentries walked along the parapet, somewhere above.

The next braid of wires was just above his head. He slipped the second belt beneath it and, shifting his weight, hoisted his right foot onto the next knot. He pulled again and, as he moved higher, opened his right hand; the first belt easily slid from beneath the wire.

The crackling of the torches grew nearer and then faded; the sentries' steps thudded away and night enveloped him; Lindir leaped. He landed onto the parapet without a sound and, casting a quick glance to both sides to ensure that both soldiers were still marching in opposite directions, he edged jumped down into the protective darkness under the parapet.


	11. Chapter 10

- Chapter 10 -

Lindir landed on his feet, muscles flexing to soften the impact. He crouched at once, listening raptly for any signs that his intrusion had been spotted; but no cry came from above, no soldier turned around to investigate the origin of a strange noise. Once again he and Glorfindel had been proven lucky: the cliff stood directly across the weapon storage area. No guards patrolled this part of the camp as most of the weapons had been taken by the small army; but Lindir had closely evaded a stand that sprouted several rusty halberds and spears.

He grinned at his luck, somewhat lightheaded as the rush of excitement coursed through his veins in a way it had not for a long time. This was a dangerous adventure, which made it all the more thrilling. He unwrapped the belts from his wrists and tied them together into a tight bundle, taking care to enclose the buckles into the heart of the knot so that they would not jingle.

"Catch," Lindir murmured through the space between the beams. "Beware of the spears upon landing - aim to the left." Then, just as the sentries turned their backs on one another, he stood and, with one wide movement of his arm, tossed the bundle across the parapet - a soft "click" on the other side informed him that Glorfindel had received the belts into his hands.

It was a matter of minutes before the warrior was crouching beside him in the darkness beneath the wall. They backed down into the protective shadow cast by the overhanging catwalk and surveyed the camp from this new perspective.

The few remaining soldiers had regrouped around the largest fire in the camp, sharing the remnants of a roasted pig, drinking and talking quietly. In the absence of the leader Lindir would have expected drunkenness, but noted that the men were drawing wine from a small barrel on the ground and watering it down from another. The established discipline still held; or perhaps it was the forest itself, and the stories that could be told about it, that kept the soldiers wary and keen on remaining alert.

This meant that it would be no easy stride into the leader's tent for the two of them; they would have to dash across stripes of shadows cast by the barrels, past tents and the men themselves if they chose the shortest way; or, as Glorfindel pointed out, they could skirt around the wall to reach the tent from the side – this would take longer, but was a safer plan.

The tent itself was firmly staked to the ground with iron nails set closely to each other and, now that he was facing it, Lindir raked his mind for a way of getting to the other side of the heavy fabric that once would have been a glorious red and golden colour and that now smelled of stale cloth left humid for too long. Just as he was about to suggest pulling several of the stakes out and crawling beneath the tent, Glorfindel reached into his boot, pulling out a long hunting knife.

"Hold it down," he nodded towards the hem of the tent.

Lindir's ready reply along the lines of "Oh yes - this tent seems downright rebellious, it may struggle," died on his lips.

Glorfindel's eyes had hardened as soon as the handle had found its place against his palm and, Lindir was brutally reminded of how differently they had served their lord in their time. Tent and camp vanished for an instant in favour of a darker scene. Suddenly the blade in Glorfindel's hand was meant for an enemy, his determined face a mask of death he put on without thinking. The warrior was the very icon of a hero - dashing, daring and deadly, but his tragic past reeked too strongly of blood to be envied; an armed Glorfindel, for all his peaceful intentions, made Lindir's spine fire up advice about tiptoeing his way around him. He did not like feeling like a mouse.

He complied, pulling the dirty fabric to the ground. "I will write you into a ballad, someday, you know," he said.

Glorfindel's lips twisted into a grimace. "Please don't."

The blade penetrated the fabric without a sound, slicing it as though it were butter... or tender flesh, Lindir thought briefly, watching the contrast of the worn crimson stripe and the shining steel. He shook himself, his mask of cool competence and carefree wit back in place against the unwelcome image, and followed Glorfindel through the opening.

It was dark inside, with only the dim flickering of the fire on the other side of the tent to light up the sparse furnishings: a soldier's bed in a corner, an old cloak covering the thin straw mattress, the corner of a small chest visible from under its folds; a makeshift table made from trestles and boards. Glorfindel stopped at the table, leaning over it to decipher the maps strewn across its surface. His fingers ghosted over leather and parchment, the soft rustling an almost inaudible protest against his hand.

"The Shaws," Glorfindel whispered to Lindir, "and Hollin, Bree-land, the High Pass..." His eyes widened as he pulled on a corner, revealing an old leather map. "Lindir, come and take a look," he murmured. "This is Gondor - its old borders. It bears the seal of the Kings."

"However did a commoner's son come into its possession?" Lindir said. He took the map from Glorfindel's hands, bringing it into the halo of light by the wall. "This comes from the Royal Library of Minas Tirith," he declared, "and should be the rightful possession of the heir to the throne."

From his place next to the table, Glorfindel raised a quizzical eyebrow and followed Lindir's gaze to the chest under the bed. They both stilled as someone spoke, from the fireside beyond the tent.

"Damn. Time for the patrol, boys, save me some more meat for when I'm done."

The declaration triggered a chorus of groans. "Patrol can wait," someone argued, "finish your tale first!" "Yeah, what happened to pretty Peggy?"

"Later," the soldier replied with a smirk in his voice. "That'll keep you up until I'm back."

Lindir could hear him turn on his heels, gravels crunching beneath his boots. A soft metallic sound told him that the man had probably picked up his weapon, and then his heavy footsteps shuffled away towards the wall, in the direction he and Glorfindel had come from.

There was no time to waste. The man would notice the slit on his way past the tent. Lindir dropped the map back onto the table and, striding purposefully towards the bed, pulled a set of lock picks from one of his pockets. He tugged the chest into the light, ignoring Glorfindel's surprised expression.

"Now is the time for spilled secrets," Lindir declared with a dramatic pause before kneeling down and choosing the best pick to start working on the lock. He slid the tool off the metallic ring he carried the picks on, then removed a torque wrench from his collection in the same manner.

Glorfindel did not comment at his newly revealed talent or his mannerisms. Lindir could tell that his friend's mind was elsewhere, his unease showing in the way he kept moving on his feet, shuffling in the darkness, as if preparing to react upon a shout on the other side of the tent wall.

Lindir worked on the lock, probing the plug for the movement of the pins; he had stuck the unused picks into his mouth so they would be handy when he needed them. He adjusted the wrench to imprint the correct amount of torsion. The minutes stretched on with only the clicking of the picks inside the lock and the increasing numbness in his legs to mark the time, and he smiled around the picks as he finally felt the lock start to surrender.

A yell on the other side of the tent almost made him drop them all.

"Hey, hurry up," hollered one of the men by the fire. "Camp's fucking empty, what's taking so long?"

"Yeah, yeah…" The guard's voice seemed distracted, and Lindir's heart lurched at the thought that it might be their footprints he was puzzling over.

Glorfindel seemed to think the same thing, as he growled from behind him: "Hurry up!"

"I… am," Lindir hissed as he spit out a hook pick into his palm.

He cursed as he forced on the picks, grinding them against the pins, conscious that it was a crude, mostly ineffective method of lock picking, but also fully aware of the precariousness of their situation. They _had_ to get lucky again, they had to get lucky _now_…

"Yes!" he all but yelled out as the pins shifted and the torsion imprinted by the wrench turned the plug inside the lock. The small chest swung open and, hastily pocketing the picks, Lindir dug inside the contents and tossed them onto the ground.

Old parchments rustled against each other as the small heap of documents spilled into the dim light, heavy wax seals weighing them down and crumbling from years of similar mistreatment. Worn-out golden letters shone dully as if tired of claiming an ancient, dilapidated heritage; faded ink scratched the dusty pages.

"This is a detailed ancestry of the leader," Lindir muttered as he perused them. "Proofs of noble lineage, family tree…" He tugged at the corner of a document at the bottom of the pile and pulled it out. "Gaervaed son of Garadorn. Here is a coat of arms…" He gaped at the symbols etched into the parchment, sliding it silently towards Glorfindel for him to see; they shared a horrified look of understanding.

"Hey, Tanner, come over here!" called the guard from the other side of the camp. And, as the grumbling and shuffling of feet indicated that the man in question complied: "These yours?"

Lindir pressed his eyes shut in a silent curse. Their footprints had just betrayed their presence.

"We must go." Glorfindel's voice was as tight as his face was pale, even in the twilight beneath the tent; but Lindir knew it was not the fear of being found. "We must go now. It may be not too late yet."

The soldiers devised quietly, but Lindir could not hear their words. They soon called out to more of their comrades, innocently, some bawdy joke serving as an excuse, as though they were still unaware of the intruders in their midst. Heavy footsteps echoed across the camp as the men started the search. Lindir heard the soft metallic whispers of drawn weapons.

Glorfindel stepped towards the opening, glancing back in irritation as Lindir bent down to pick up the documents. The footsteps neared their tent, feet stepping cautiously, heel biting the ground first in a wet crunch.

"Lindir!" Glorfindel hissed.

"Hey! Over here!"

Glorfindel lunged towards the opening, pushing the fabric aside. It ripped, shattering the tense silence of the camp. A strangled cry on the other side told Lindir that the soldier had been caught by surprise.

"Lindir! We leave _now_!"

"Intruders! Intruders in Gaer's tent!"

Lindir leaped to his feet, racing to the gaping hole in the tent. He dug his heels into the ground, throwing his arms open in order to keep his balance as a soldier came falling towards him, a bewildered expression on his face. Sidestepping the man as he landed into the gravelly ground, he spun on his left foot and kicked him in the stomach. Then he jumped outside, just in time to seize an arm aiming a weapon at Glorfindel's back. He pulled the arm down; the man, surprised at having been intercepted, reacted by resisting and pushing back up. Lindir tugged on his wrist, using this momentum to twist the soldier's arm, exposing the elbow. The man screamed in pain as he slammed his left palm against the joint; bones crunched as the arm gave in under the impact.

The man looked at him in horror, clutching the now useless arm to his side; his eyes widened but he did not scream again as Lindir booted him in the chest, throwing him backwards into the feet of the soldiers that were closing in on them. To his left, Glorfindel smashed the heel of his palm into a soldier's face. Bone ground against bone, and blood spurted from the mangled nose. A short, powerful kick ended in a wet crunch, and another man howled in agony as he fell onto his broken knee.

All around them, soldiers were lying in the dirt, unconscious or fighting for breath, blood from their hand-inflicted wounds drenching the cold, sandy ground, and Lindir was suddenly glad that they had been forced to leave their swords behind. This was a sorry mess, a sloppy mission if he ever saw one. He ran a shaking hand through his hair, trying to block out the laboured breathing and the quiet moans of pain.

A scream erupted to his right, contrasting with the muted suffering of the defeated - Lindir spun around, backhanding his charging opponent into the tent and realizing too late that the man - only a boy - carried a torch as a weapon. The fabric, long-soaked in fumes of torch oil, went ablaze in a heartbeat, flames roaring as they started devouring the tent. The boy's eyes widened in terror.

Lindir reacted instinctively, plunging his arm amidst the flames and hoisting the youth out of the inferno by the tunic, shoving him away once he was standing again. He did not know what had triggered this desperate and foolish display of bravery. Perhaps a father, a loved uncle or mentor lay nearby, appearing dead to untrained, impressionable eyes but, to Lindir's knowledge, still very much alive – he had been careful not to kill, and hoped that Glorfindel had shown the same restraint. He saw the boy stagger to his feet, emotions displaying on his face: relief, resentment at his saviour as well as himself for feeling grateful towards a man who had apparently killed those he loved. And awe, terror-struck and fascinated, as the boy's eyes flickered to his ears and finally took in his appearance.

Lindir saw the boy hesitate; he imagined the internal battle between honour and fear.

"_Get away!_" he hissed in Sindarin, punctuating his words with a pointing gesture towards the forest. "Go home!"

The first arrow whistled past Lindir's ear; it embedded itself in the ground by his feet.

"Go home! Leave!" he repeated, this time in Common.

His plan worked. The youth's eyes widened in terror and he turned on his heels, the soles of his boots scattering the sandy earth as he dashed across the camp towards the gates.

Lindir raised a hand to his temple, switching his attention to the fire. The tent was burning bright; the pikes supporting the structure had given way in the heat, and the heavy fabric had collapsed on itself. The documents, the proof, were inside, if not yet gone then certainly smouldering. A disaster. And arrows were starting to rain all around him.

He made a staggering step towards the blaze.

"Lindir!"

He turned around to see Glorfindel looking at him through the smoke that whirled around him; the warrior's angry face was distorted further by the shimmering air, and Lindir understood how intimidating and alien they must have appeared to the soldiers.

"Leave it!"

Glorfindel took a step towards him, ducking as arrows fell around them. "To the wall, we leave now!"

"These documents are priceless!" he yelled in return as he bent in two to avoid the smoke.

They are not worth your life!"

Lindir cast a last glance at the blazing remains of the tent, swearing under his breath as he raced after Glorfindel towards the wooden ladder that led to the catwalk. He climbed the rungs two by two, ducking at Glorfindel's yell of warning to avoid the guard that the warrior threw over the railing. They jumped over the wall, landing in the middle of bushes and scratching their faces and hands, barely stopped to pick up their weapons, fingers digging into dirt in their hurry to grab the swords on their way.

"Now run," he breathed out as he sped up to match Glorfindel's pace, "and pray we are not too late."

oOoOo

Aeve could not sleep. She kept tossing and turning, bitter guilt burning her throat. She had cried until her tears had been spent, finding no rest or comfort beneath the covers that usually soothed her troubles in the thought that nothing, no sorrow or care, had a hold on her while she was there. This time, there was no pushing the unpleasant thoughts aside in accordance to the wise saying that morning would bring her advice, for there was simply no advice to be found.

Aeve curled up on herself, trying to imagine Sveyn marching away in the night beside the other men, a heavy weapon strapped to his side, shackled and beaten, waiting to be released onto a battlefield he had not chosen. The fact that the men walking beside him would not be unfamiliar faces was of little comfort – those were his father and hers, maybe her brother, if the soldiers had managed to catch him too. Those were his and his father's friends.

And she could send him no comfort, for she was the cause of him being there at all. She was the one responsible for his fate, and the fact that she had caused all of it unwittingly did not deliver her from guilt. A stupid mistake did not absolve her from responsibility – this was something she came to realize as she had listened to her mother's soothing, senseless words. Things had gone horribly wrong by her fault, and there was nothing she could do to set them right, to restore what once was and get rid of the burden weighing on her conscience.

Her mother's look had been one of pity, one she usually reserved for beings so wretched that they were beyond redemption or even understanding of their condition. She had held Aeve in her arms, smoothed out her hair and listened to her confession, and peppered absent-minded kisses on her forehead; but the tears she had cried, Aeve knew, had not been for her daughter's timely saving.

And Aeve had found it hard to look her mother in the eye as she had gone to sleep that night. She, too, was ashamed of what she had done.

If only she could turn back time, undo what had been done – it would be all she'd ever ask of life, the only thing she'd ever desire.

_A single wish._

Under the covers, in the deepened darkness they cast over her, Aeve opened her eyes. She remembered Sveyn's tales, those same stories she had dismissed as drivel intended to scare the gullible. There was but one way for undoing her mistake would undoubtedly require powers she did not possess – but she was determined to seek them out.

Her mother was sleeping soundly as she tiptoed across the kitchen and towards the door; wrapped into her father's cloak, her nose buried in the fabric, her face tired in the light of a dying candle. Aeve swallowed the urge to enter and wake her, to seek in her arms a selfish comfort she could not deny. Instead she slid open the door of the house just enough to fit through the opening. The night was cold and silent; there were no songs coming from the tavern, no husband-and-wife fights echoing from a house nearby. There was no-one left to sing and fight with.

Aeve closed the door, listening to the final 'click' as it closed behind her. The forest loomed before her, black hole in the landscape that seemed to swallow all moonlight. There she would find what she needed, in exchange for a price. Her fate and that of her descendants would be tied to it.

She would strike a deal with the elves.


	12. Chapter 11

- Chapter 11 -

"All is quiet," Elrohir announced as he propped his bow against a tree and crouched by the small, barely smoking campfire next to Elladan. "Any news from Glorfindel and Lindir?"

"None." From his side of the fire, Urúvion sighed and poked the coals with a smouldering twig.

The small group was gathered by the edge of the forest, having abandoned Imladris to the surveillance of just a few men to ensure their proximity should the heiress be in danger. They were stationed just deep enough not to risk being spotted – as their best scout, Gwillin had made sure of that. The village was quiet, after several days of hushed unrest followed by a barely contained rebellion. The exodus of people fleeing the draft had ended as soon as the army had left the village; before that, men, women and children had crossed the woods not far from their camp, making all of them nervous and irritable.

Now, after the chaos, the silence of the forest seemed eerie.

Elladan stretched his legs towards the fire and rubbed his hands together, trying to ward off the bite of the upcoming cold morning. Their night had been a long and dreary one, like many before; they took turns in patrolling the perimeter of their small camp, talked quietly and with reluctance, occasionally listening for a sound indicating that Lindir and Glorfindel had returned. Elladan missed the long past evenings in his father's home, when the darkness of the corridors was lightened by firelights from the Halls, and the mornings were promises rather than simple indicators of the time that had passed. He remembered the nights, so similar and yet so different, when he had sat with the Dúnedain and shared their companionable routine. There had been warmth and camaraderie in those moments, even as danger loomed. Now they were all tense, minds too preoccupied with what awaited them to take comfort in the company of others.

Suddenly Gwillin, who was sitting opposite of him with his eyes trained on the flames, looked up, stiffening as his hand shot to his lips to request silence. He leaned forward, shifting his weight to his feet and stood up. "Kill the fire," he mouthed.

Elladan reacted quickly, kicking earth into the stone circle that harbored the fire; the flames were buried instantly. The forest night, black as tar, fell upon the camp like un upturned cauldron, and he blinked as his eyesight shifted to adjust to darkness. Then he heard the footsteps.

Someone was coming; walking quietly, most certainly out of caution rather than aiming for stealth, stumbling over sticks and piles of leaves that covered the path; Elladan distinguished, amongst the sounds of the forest, the rustle of the leaves touched by a hand in guidance. He slowed his breath instinctively, registered the deepening silence as the others imitated him. The path lay nearby, just far enough to ensure them invisibility to an untrained eye; it appeared empty, but the footsteps were drawing closer. Whoever was coming could not see them, he thought, unless they chose to reveal their presence. He saw Elrohir take a silent step back, fading right through the vegetation as though it was immaterial.

They waited.

Elladan held his breath as the girl appeared between the trees. She was walking with her hand extended to touch the bushes that grew along the path, her steps slow but purposeful, her eyes scanning the depths of the woods. Again, he reminded himself that she could not see him, but stilled as her gaze wandered, unseeing, past where he stood. Aeve – she seemed so young, so frail in nothing but a nightgown and a shawl, shivering in the forest draft. Whom had she come to seek at this hour? Was it a lover that she came to meet, unaware of the danger and blinded by misguided attraction? Elladan felt his anger grow at the man who would lure a girl into the woods at this hour. At least they were standing watch, unbeknownst to her. They would keep her safe.

Aeve stopped, appearing to hesitate. Her hand left the leaves that rustled beneath her touch to tuck itself under her armpit as she wrapped her arms around her. "Are you there?" she called out.

No-one answered her; except for their silent presence, this part of the forest was empty. Elladan caught Urúvion's questioning look and shrugged. Nearby, Gwillin was crouching low, a hand on the hilt of his dagger. Elladan doubted he found any threat in the girl, but of all of them he was the most cautious, a blessing in uncertain times but an annoyance in peace.

"I… I know you can hear me." She shifted on her feet, probably feeling stupid for talking to no-one. "Elves! I'm calling for you now. I need your help."

Elladan felt his eyes widen in surprise. He knew she had seen him that one time long ago, lurking by the edge of the forest, and thus knew of their existence. He suspected that she was afraid of them, as the stories told by older friends and parents taught her to, and would not have wagered on her coming to find them of her own volition. Now that she was here, standing in the middle of the forest and calling out for their help – the excuse they had been waiting for to intervene, the one chance they had to get her to safety – he was at a loss.

"I…" Aeve hesitated again, and Elladan felt a surge of pity for her, mixed with admiration for the courage it must have taken to wander alone into a dark forest to search for beings reputed dangerous and fickle. "I will do whatever you want in exchange." But that courage was waning - she fidgeted nervously with her shawl, lips thinning into a scowl. "I know you're there. Won't you answer me?"

He sought out Elrohir's face amongst those of their group and read the same shock he was feeling; but there was also hope, and he nodded to his brother. The time had come.

"We heard your call," Elrohir said softly. "We have come to respond."

One by one, they stepped into the scarce moonlight that filtered through the canopies. Aeve gasped, stumbling back in a fright that she managed to repress.

"Wow." Her whisper did not go unnoticed, and Elladan almost chuckled at her amazement. The younger elves, Urúvion amongst them, openly smiled at being stared at. She was just as much a wonder to them as they to her.

"Do not be afraid," Elrohir continued. "you are safe. Tales of our… bloodlust," he added with a small smile, "are a mortal's invention."

"But you could be saying that to mislead me," she argued suddenly.

Gwillin smirked. "_You_ came to find _us_," he said.

Elladan shot him a warning look that Gwillin bore with a defiant expression. "Let us light the fire again," he offered, "and dispel shadows and doubts once and for all."

He bent and, picking up the twig left by Urúvion, dug the coals out of the dirt. The few remaining embers, almost smothered by the heavy fabric, glowed faintly in the darkness and he blew on them gently to rekindle the flames. The half-consumed logs crackled as the fire took.

Elladan took this opportunity to study Aeve from up close: long, tangled hair the shade of cinder, blue eyes and a figure that would benefit from a little more food. Thin limbs moving with the shy grace of youth, a few healthy scrapes, a pretty, honest face.

But she looked nothing like Aragorn.

"What is this help that you requested?" Elrohir spoke again.

His words seemed to pull her from her thoughts, hopefully dispelling the remains of wariness and fear. It would be long before she fully trusted them, Elladan knew, but at least she could finally feel unthreatened in their presence. She nodded, as though remembering the purpose of her visit here, and looked up to meet Elrohir's eyes.

"Something bad has happened, and it's my fault," she said. "They took..."

A rustle, too loud to be just a gust of wind in the branches, alerted Elladan. He looked up, reaching out to pull Aeve behind him and out of an eventual harm's way, just as Thangyl, one of the scouts in charge of patrolling the southern part of the woods, came running down the path.

"The army…" he breathed out, "at the edge of the woods. It has begun."

oOoOo

Aeve sat in silence, half-dazed and permanently fighting the urge to stare. If she ever told her friends what had happened to her no-one would believe her - Aeve still had trouble believing it herself. She had entered the forest and called out for help, as though summoning the woods themselves for assistance; and her call had been answered. The elves had stepped out of the shadows, pale spirits with glowing eyes. They had brought her back to their dwelling – into the deep valley where she had ventured once, well beyond the first stones of civilization where she'd stopped back then. They had promised safety and help - but now it seemed they weren't listening anymore.

The elves seemed to be arguing amongst themselves, their flowing language occasionally punctuated with harsher syllables that indicated urgency and annoyance. Aeve could not understand a single word, but their body language was explicit enough. Occasionally one of them – he had introduced himself as Elrohir on their way to the elves' home - would nod in her direction, his expression softening just for an instant before his voice regained a hard, commanding tone. He was a dark-haired and slightly less feminine-looking and more muscular than the others, with the exception of the one who seemed to be his twin; Aeve guessed he was the leader of the group.

She sat in silence with her hands tucked under her thighs to stop herself from wriggling on her chair. The beauty of her environment was lost on her - they weren't listening, her initial query lost somewhere in their argument, and time was running by; there was a point where nothing could be done anymore to help Sveyn, and every minute brought it closer. The battle was near, the armies in place and he was trapped somewhere in the lines. Still she dared not interrupt them – it was considered impolite in her own society, and who knew how the elves treated such offenses? They could even take back their promise of help, and what would she do then?

Elrohir spoke again, pushing his hands downwards, fingers outstretched. _Here_, s_tay_, Aeve understood. "_Rhaich!_" Another elf threw his hands into the air in annoyance; but the matter was settled. She felt hope at the thought that she could finally voice her need for help.

"It is safe here," Elrohir said as he turned to face her. "_You_ are safe here. We will not take unnecessary risks. We will wait this conflict out."

"But..." She looked at the calm faces staring back at her. "But what about Sveyn?"

He smiled at her, one of those condescending smiles that people usually reserved for frightened children. "Do not worry – your family can be brought to safety as well. We understand your concern..."

"No, you don't!" She slid off the chair, glaring at the kind, puzzled faces. "You aren't listening to what I'm trying to say – I don't care about my safety. My family will be fine..." She halted, thinking of her father, and Elrohir's twin seized this opportunity to speak up.

"Then you try to understand, Aeve," he said softly, stepping out of the circle of elves to stand by his brother's side. "We have been expecting you, waiting for this encounter to happen for long, long years, even before you were born. It is our purpose here – to protect you and safeguard your bloodline and its nobility." He touched her chin, pushing it up to tear her eyes off the floor where she'd been stubbornly staring since he began to speak. "Many of our comrades have died to bring us to this moment. More will fall if we leave this place before it is safe to do so, not to mention the risk it would put you under."

"Nobility? Me?" Aeve frowned in confusion, searching his eyes for a confirmation that he was joking. "No, you're mistaken. I'm nobody, I mean... I'm not a lost princess, or something."

"You are the heir of an old line," Elrohir declared, folding his arms and leaning against a pillar. "The descendant of a great King, who was a brother and a friend. You are Aragorn's heir." He shrugged. "But I do not expect you to know the name. Know only that we are sworn to protect his kin."

His tone bore no hint of mockery, and Aeve let the words sink in, examining the possibilities and consequences in her mind. This unexpected twist, discovering herself to be the heir to a prestigious bloodline with the titles and status at hand and a small army of strange, ancient guardians to help her reclaim what was hers, certainly flattered her ego. She tried to picture herself in the fanciest dress she could imagine and wearing a crown; the dull shine of gold under her skin as she sat on a sumptuous throne, the elves bowing, ready to obey, as she ordered them on a mission. The woman in her vision did look just like her, a little prettier perhaps, a little older. But the dress she wore was too simple, the elves' reverence stiff as the unwise orders rang out and they left with bitter hearts to do her bidding. No, this fate was not hers. For all the magnificence of such a prospect, Aeve knew she was just a peasant girl.

"No, you're wrong," she whispered. "I'm not the one you need."

"Do not think that we have not considered this possibility," the twin said – or was it Elrohir? Aeve was starting to get them confused. "Physical resemblance would have been an additional proof," he seemed to size her up, his lips curling into a barely perceptible pout that Aeve chose to ignore despite the stab at her pride, "but such traits would have, understandably, weakened over the generations."

"Additional proof?" Aeve bit her lip. She did not know whether she wanted a confirmation of the news or rather a chance to disprove them. "So... Do you have, like, documents about this... bloodline?"

The elf shrugged. "We did – but, just like many other precious things, they were lost over the last centuries. But there are other ways of knowing, if not solid proof than at least a clue to confirm what we feel in our hearts." He shot a stern glance towards the other elves in the room, and Aeve guessed that the subject had been one of disagreement over the past years. Had they been watching her, voicing their doubts about whether she made a suitable heir to that King's line, criticizing the way she walked or talked for not being regal enough? Aeve felt her heart sink. If they'd been waiting all this time for just for her, they had to be disappointed.

But Elrohir's twin continued: "We were glad to see that the old lore is still kept alive in your family." And, as she frowned in incomprehension, he clarified: "The song. You can sing in Sindarin, a language taught to Aragorn when he came to stay with us in the previous Age. Perhaps you even possess a token that we would recognize, that could have been salvaged from the sacking of Minas Tirith – that would be a welcome sight."

"The song? You mean the one with the foreign words?"

Then it dawned upon her. Aeve felt her eyes widen as she covered her mouth in shock. "You are wrong," she breathed out, "so wrong. It was Sveyn – he taught me the song, he said his mother used to sing it to him when he was a baby. He... he..." She struggled to remember the contents of that old chest that Shawn Innerney, Sveyn's father, used to keep in the back room of the tavern and that she had seen open but once. "His father has an old banner," she said, "with a white tree embroidered onto a black fabric. And the necklace!" She gestured breezily to her own neck, remembering the chain she had seen through the opening in Sveyn's shirt. "A silver pendant, with stones like diamonds and fancy volutes..."

"The Tree of Gondor, the Evenstar." Elrohir leaned forward hungrily, his eyes boring into her as though he longed to lunge and shake the truth out of her. "This Sveyn has the Evenstar?"

The sudden shift in his demeanour was frightening; Aeve stumbled back until her ankle brushed against the foot of the chair and reached out for the armrest to steady herself. "I don't know," she hissed out, defensive. "Maybe you should _go find him_ and ask him? He was probably still wearing it when the soldiers took him." She glared at the elf, and the triumph of finally being heard out left a bitter taste on her tongue.

"Sveyn is the heir," the twin whispered, looking at his brother. "He is the heir, and she..." He shook his head. "The child. The child is the heir to the line – a future that can be, that we must ensure it will come to pass." Aeve did not understand what he was saying, but the elves seemed to care little about her now. "The vision spoke of his son, and it will not happen unless the boy survives." He swerved to face her, his hands gripping her arms with a strength just a squeeze short of painful. "Where is he now?"

"With... with the army," Aeve stammered. "They took him yesterday evening." And, as he let go of her, she added in a whisper: "I tried to tell you..."

"Prepare for battle," Elrohir said, "though I know we have all been ready for years. We leave within the hour. Our time has finally come."


	13. Chapter 12

- Chapter 12 -

It was mid-morning when Imladris finally came into sight, moss-covered columns blending in with the birches and the elms. Lindir ran down the narrow path that still existed between the old bridge and the house; the earth was supple beneath his feet, propelling him forward as though in mercy of his aching muscles.

"Elladan! Elrohir!" he called out, exhaling the names with what air was left in his lungs as he climbed the stairs. No-one answered him.

His face, scratched from tearing through the woods, burned and he could still smell the smoke on his clothes. Lindir crouched, leaning against a pillar for support, oblivious of the carvings that dug into his shoulder, and threw his head back to swallow gulps of air. He cracked an eye open to see Glorfindel, who had been following him closely, looking just as disheveled. The warrior bent, panting, his hands on his knees as he allowed himself a short respite before speaking.

"They are gone," he said. His expression was somber beyond the obvious exhaustion.

"Perhaps they left for the border of the woods?" Lindir hazarded, refusing to give in to frustration and hoping that their efforts and speed had paid off.

"Why would they leave the safety of their home? That makes no sense."

Lindir bit back a scathing reply about being painfully obvious. His exhaustion, both physical and mental, or the shock of finding Imladris empty, was not Glorfindel's fault. Something had happened here, something they'd missed; and now they had to move on, to find the Peredhil and to inform them of what they had discovered. But Lindir allowed himself a brief moment of respite. He closed his eyes, exhaled, picturing his tiredness draining away with the air that he pushed out of his lungs. No good would come from driving himself beyond the point of exhaustion.

"Lindir, Glorfindel. You have returned."

Lindir jumped, whirling around as much as his protesting muscles allowed. He knew that drawling, quiet voice. "Gwillin?" He pushed himself to his feet again, brushing his hands on his breeches. "Gwillin, where is everyone?"

The scout shot a glance over his shoulder. "Gone at first light."

"But why?" Lindir shook his head. "We had agreed..." Glorfindel has been right – such a move made no apparent sense, and his mind buzzed with possible explanations, each of them more grim than the previous one.

Gwillin shrugged, deceptively unfazed. "We were wrong, it would seem. The girl is not the heir."

"Explain yourself." Glorfindel's voice, though somewhat breathy, rang with an authority that made the scout bristle. Lindir shot him a reproachful look.

"We have been wasting our time, watching the wrong child, all for nothing," Gwillin sneered, hackles raised at once. "The _real_ heir to Elessar's bloodline may now be dead... unless they manage to reach him before he is slain in that mindless battle. Your hurry was pointless," he added, eyeing their appearance. There may have been a hint of pity in his eyes, but it was well-hidden by the annoyance and the desire to rub their failure in their face – a desire that Lindir could not fully reproach him with, given Glorfindel's propensity to antagonize people.

"Enough, both of you," he interjected tiredly just as Glorfindel opened his mouth. "There is no time for this."

"Lindir the wise has spoken," Gwillin scoffed. "Or should I say wiser? Do you see it now, how this was folly from the very beginning? We've wasted precious time rotting here, far from home, and for what?" He shook his head. "Your song about the glory of this" – he gestured to their surroundings, "I hope it is worth it."

Lindir sighed. "Speaking of wasting time, where are they, Gwillin? Time is running out; we need to find Elladan and Elrohir quickly. There is something they need to know."

The scout glanced over his shoulder again, as if making sure that the house behind them still stood. "They are two hours ahead of you," he said. "There is to be a battle North of our border; the armies of the lord of these lands are gathered against the rebellion, and the heir is amongst them."

It was all they needed to know, but curiosity tugged at Lindir.

"Were you to give us this message?" he asked, wondering about Gwillin's behaviour. The scout shot him a wary look.

"The girl is still here. She came to find us and plead for help, and since she is part of the _vision_..." The last word came out tinged with contempt, but not for the author of said prophesy; rather for the cause itself, now an almost hopeless and erratic mission and a poor replacement for the clear, well-thought-out plans they had made. "The heir is a boy her age, dark-haired and grey-eyed, and _handsome_." He shrugged at Glorfindel's teasing grin. "Those were her words."

"You have our thanks, Gwillin," Lindir nodded, slapping Glorfindel's arm lightly before he could mock the scout for staying behind. There was always little love lost between the two, but who knew? This moment could be their last meeting. He touched his hand to his heart in the briefest gesture of farewell, then checked his belt, making sure it was still in place and that the scabbard would remain out of his way as he ran. "Take care of her... and yourself."

He heard the scout call after them as they left Imladris.

"May you reach them in time and come back safe!" Gwillin shouted. "And do not worry, the sons of Elrond will keep their word. They will protect the heir."

"Yes," Lindir muttered under his breath as he plunged into the forest depths, Glorfindel on his heels, thinking about the battlefield that lay somewhere beyond the woods. The invariable strategy that the Peredhil would apply to end the conflict or at least ensue enough chaos in order to extract the heir was one any warrior knew: _kill the leader_.

"Yes," he repeated, "this is exactly what I fear."

oOoOo

Lindir swung his sword in a wide movement, the blade a blur of silver and scarlet as it completed the arc he had drawn. It caught throats and wrists on its way and the clean cuts gaped at once, spurting hot blood onto his wind-bitten skin. The warmth quickly faded as the blood dried, a constantly thickening mask that pulled when he grimaced. Lindir moved his feet, counting in his head as he advanced as though performing a complicated choreography, sidestepping those warriors he could evade and incapacitating the others, taking advantage of both armies' bewilderment. He was aware that his style lacked finesse, that the injuries he inflicted were sometimes fatal and often crippling; he tried not to think about them, only kept trying to get past. This was no time for honourable duels; he barely paused to register the faces, mentally comparing them to Gwillin's description.

War – it was just as well that he'd managed to stay out of it until now, waging his own battles in council chambers and before audiences. Messy and loud, it felt like being ground between iron jaws with the rest of the fighters, but without the actual death for himself. The stench of blood and emptying guts rising from the ground, mixed to sweat and so much worse stenches wafting from the soldiers enveloped him. Metal crashed against metal in a chaotic cacophony, wails from the wounded overlapping one another. It was disorienting and frightening; Glorfindel seemed much more at ease than he was, a whirlwind of gold and scarlet ahead of him, his sword drawing complicated loops as he seemed to mow down those who dared oppose him.

Lindir reflected hazily that perhaps this was the right way to get across - to elevate himself above the rest of the fighters and to take offense at resistance.

A soldier planted himself before Lindir, a bastard sword held with both hands and a look of terrified resolution on his face, eyes narrowing through the opening in his helmet. The blade rose on Lindir's way, shaking in unsteady hands. Lindir shook his head; he only felt pity for the man. He clashed his sword against the soldier's with all his strength. The shock reverberated to his already tiring shoulders and he grit his teeth; but he had managed to tear the weapon from the man's hands. Reversing his grip on his own sword, Lindir slammed the handle into the helmet.

He was already far before the man touched ground.

The Peredhil were somewhere amidst this crowd of lumbering, panicked soldiers. Mercenaries who had prided themselves on their experience and drafted farmers alike knew no more who was their enemy and whom they had to protect, and swung at their neighbours in their attempts to buy themselves some time to think.

Lindir guessed that he could pinpoint exactly when the battle had turned. What could they have thought, these poor mortals who suddenly saw legends ride into battle against them, but which side could claim such support? And when neither had, everyone had assumed that the elves were out to get them. He almost cursed the Peredhil for the absence of their foresight on this matter but refrained out of both friendship and uneasy superstition.

"Lindir! There!"

He searched the chaos of bodies before him for Glorfindel's blood-matted but still very banner-like mane. The warrior had turned towards him, interrupted as another soldier hurled himself at him with a weapon raised. Caught in his momentum, the man went flying over Glorfindel and to the ground where the warrior finished him off with a stab of his blade.

"The leader!" he yelled in Sindarin, nodding briefly towards the very heart of the battlefield. Lindir followed his gaze, absently parrying a sloppy blow to his neck.

Surrounded by the lord's soldiers, his own allies scattered and outnumbered, Gaervaed fought like a cornered animal; teeth bared in a snarl, hands claw-like in their knuckle-whitening grip on his sword. He was wounded, the cuts bleeding faintly where the dust had not yet absorbed the blood, but he kept the men at bay with short, precise strikes. Lindir lunged forward, leaping over a dead man; he landed on the other side, his light boots slipping in the soup of mud and blood, and he struggled to keep his balance. A blade bit his side and he hissed, tearing his eyes from Gaervaed to strike down his attacker.

Gaervaed cried out, his voice hoarse from shouting whatever battle cry he had chosen. Lindir's heart lurched, but he was reassured to see that the rebel leader recovered from the blow he had taken. His own hand, raised to his eyes after an exploration of his aching ribs, came out covered with blood.

"Lindir!"

Someone hauled him up by the collar, and he realized he hadn't felt his knees weaken. Glorfindel was giving him a shake, his face peering intently into his. He looked worried and angry.

"Get up... Get up!" He looked around them. "This is a massacre," he growled, his mouth pursed in disgust. Lindir felt him let go of his armour, and managed to stand on wobbly legs.

"We must get to him," Lindir said.

Glorfindel stared at him. "By the Powers, are you mad? You are injured, your..."

Lindir shook his head, noting how the world around him spun a little longer after he stopped. "We must save him... them. We must save him too." He grabbed a handful of leather on Glorfindel's forearm for emphasis. "He is in danger," he insisted. The lancing pain in his side returned with a vengeance, and he grimaced. "Quickly, preferably."

Glorfindel seemed to think it over for a split second, eyeing Lindir with obvious distrust. Then he sighed. "Very well. Stay behind me," he instructed Lindir, waving a finger in his face. "Try not to hit me," he added grimly.

Lindir followed him, stepping into the traces the warrior left in the mud, fingers clenched on the handle of his sword with rather more force than necessary. He was dimly aware of the sounds of the battle between them, of the burning ache that seemed to pulsate with every heartbeat. He felt that the air was growing colder around them.

Glorfindel snarled as he brought his sword upwards and into the stomach of another soldier, lifting him off his feet. He lowered the man onto the ground by the armour, still impaled onto the blade, and stepped on the body to free the sword from the sticky grasp of the wound; and over his bent figure, Lindir met the gaze of the rebel leader. Gaervaed saw him; his eyes widened, and Lindir gaped – for it was not fear that he saw, but recognition. The man was not shocked to see elves beside him – he had seen their kind before.

Instinctively, he stepped toward him. Gaervaed spun around as well and moved to meet them. He raised his sword, his gaze flickering for a heartbeat away from Lindir and to the opponent before him. He drew his arm back, aiming his blow at the boy without even looking anymore, absent-mindedly, trying to remove an annoying but non-dangerous obstacle.

"Lindir!"

It was a perfect alignment: himself, Gaervaed and the boy... and Elladan, his armour covered in grime, eyes wide in horror and urgency. Elladan reached out to push himself past the dying men in his way, stumbled, slammed the pommel of his sword into the nearest skull in helpless hurry.

"Lindir! The boy, save the boy! He is the heir!" He clawed at the slippery surface of a fallen soldier's armour; but his progression was slow, too slow.

Lindir immediately sought Glorfindel. The warrior was now almost at arm's reach from the leader, busy keeping stray soldiers at bay, his weapon a blur. He seemed oblivious of Elladan's presence.

"Glorfindel!"

The warrior spun around, his own blade at the ready. Alert, quick, he could save the boy in time if Lindir told him to. But Gaervaed could not be stopped gently now, not without the expense of a life to cushion the blow; his blade began its descent.

Lindir suddenly remembered laying onto parchment the names of those their quest had claimed in its wake. They had been comrades and gentle-smiled, grief-stricken wives of comrades. Some of them had been friends, before time had closed those wounds as one blows on a burn to soothe the pain. Would he add Glorfindel's name to the list? Would he ask him to fling himself under the blade for a cause not even his own? Lindir felt a bitter laugh bubbling up in his chest at the irony of it all; that he, of all people, would be deciding the fate of Elessar's bloodline. Oh, but it was glorious – with two heirs to choose from, their goal was accomplished no matter what he did now.

The odds had been against them since the beginning. Outnumbered, hunted down and feared, they had despaired to find but a sliver of the magnificent past they had once been a part of, but a drop of the illustrious blood of the Kings of Númenor. And they had found it – but it flowed in two people instead of one. Gaervaed, so very like Aragorn up to his training and demeanor, and the grey-eyed youth who had promised them another heir in their visions.

Lindir opened his mouth to speak, the words ready on his lips, and for a heartbeat, time stood still.

"Glorfindel!"

He grasped his bleeding side, lunged forward so that his order would not be lost in the mayhem. "Kill him, _kill the leader_!" he yelled. "Save the boy!"

Glorfindel's eyebrows rose in bewilderment as he made to move towards Lindir, probably thinking he had finally lost his clarity from blood loss.

"Do it!" Lindir staggered. He had to make him see this was the best, the _only_ way. "Trust me this once!" He fell to his knees.

Glorfindel spun on his heels, his blade collecting the momentum of his body until it met the surface of Gaervaed's armour. Leather surrendered before steel and the sword disappeared inside the ribcage, emerging on the other side with a crunch. The leader froze, his hands suddenly lax and his own sword too heavy for unfeeling fingers. His eyes widened in surprise and hurt as Glorfindel gently lowered him to his knees and onto his back.

With what strength he still had left Lindir pushed himself up and past the warrior, brushing against his armored shoulder and thinking briefly of how grateful he was for its warmth. Glorfindel lived.

He knelt beside Gaervaed. The elven sword was still sticking out of his chest and his eyes were open; then Gaervaed blinked. Lindir slid closer and lifted his head into his lap. The fading warmth of the man's life seeped into his hands.

"I…" the rebel leader opened his mouth to speak, but blood welled up in his throat and spilled from the corners of his mouth. He gurgled, struggling for breath, and Lindir grasped his searching hand.

"I am sorry," he whispered, aware that his words were empty. He was not – sorry - he was exhausted and cold and strangely relieved, and weary to his bones, as though their very marrow was dry and eroded.

"I am defeated," Gaervaed whispered. "The line of Kings has failed."

"It has not; the blood yet lives." Lindir turned his head to the side, supporting the weight that the dying muscles could not, so that he could see the boy stagger away before he was yanked to Elladan's side. "The line yet lives; we will protect him." He felt the man's fingers tighten around his own and metal press into his skin. He looked at Gaervaed's hand. Untangling his fingers from the leader's grasp, he slid the ring of Barahir from the forefinger and into his pocket.

"I need to know," he said, leaning to whisper into the man's ear, "who trained you? You have seen our kind before. Where?"

He received to answer. Gaervaed's eyes were glazing over, he saw as he looked into his face again.

"No!" He shook the man's body in his lap. A heavy hand came to rest on his shoulder but he ignored it. "Answer me, who trained you?"

He almost missed the answer – a mere breath, as Glorfindel spoke.

"He is gone," the warrior said, just as Gaervaed replied, his eyes unseeing: "Maglor."


	14. Chapter 13

- Chapter 13 -

"One, two…"

Elrohir's voice was hoarse with effort as he counted out loud the rhythm that kept them all alive. Elladan had denied himself the reassurance of seeking out his twin in the melee for a while now, relying on the increasing strain in his voice to monitor him instead. His own breath was starting to come out ragged.

"I see him!"

Elrohir's sudden shout pierced the dull roar of the battle, clear and full of hope. Elladan's head shot up, eyes scanning the iron-clad crowd at once for a shorter, thinner silhouette. _Three, four_, he finished in his head as he executed the last moves of the combination, swinging and stabbing along with the count. Elrohir had not finished the cycle, but the synchronicity of the group did not falter. However, the fighters around them kept moving chaotically, shifting, like shadows of leaves on a windy day; the ever-restless sea of metal would soon swallow their hope again. _One, two…_ He was beginning to despair when he finally saw the boy. Sveyn stood motionless, thin shoulders hunched beneath an oversized leather and mail armour, sword wavering in his hands like a surrender flag.

"I see him!" he echoed Elrohir's cry, letting some of his own tentative joy into his voice. All around them, the others responded and he found himself counting the voices. Had they lost anyone yet?

_Three, four. _Discarding that line of thought, he concentrated on his movements, watching the shadow play of fighter figures that took place between him and the boy; he saw an opening. "I am going, cover me!" he yelled and broke the formation. He lunged forward, holding his breath for the impacts to come, ready to barrel through on sheer speed. The battle threw him back as suddenly as it had parted, and he retreated until he felt his brother's back press against his own. Elrohir tensed for a second before recognizing his presence.

He shifted just a little, giving him more space at the expense of his own as a meager comfort against his failure. Suddenly Elladan felt a tug at his back as his brother slipped; he bent his knees and reached out with his left hand to catch him, supporting his weight for a long second. He realized how tired, how vulnerable they all were. Gritting his teeth in frustration, he caught up with the others' strikes and forced yet another confused soldier back. The man staggered away, dazed by a resounding blow to his helmet, but even this brief encounter was a waste of time. Every second that passed now was one second too many, every delay unnerved him, but Elladan could not leave his place for fear of leaving his brother's back unprotected.

"Elladan, you must go!"

"No!" He shook his head even though Elrohir could not see it. "No, I will not leave you here!" He shifted his grip on the handle. "Keep counting!" There had to be another way, and a better idea would certainly cross his mind one moment or another.

His brother shoved him lightly as he landed a blow with more force than previously, or perhaps in retaliation for Elladan's stubbornness. "He needs you more than I do!"

There was no point in arguing; Elladan knew very well that there was nothing to wait for, that no reinforcements would arrive. They had thrown all their forces into the fray, hoping that the initial shock would confuse the armies and cause a retreat. Instead, the men had turned on each other, forcing their men to regroup and fight at close range, with little space for movement. The ground beneath their feet had been worn out by the shuffling of their feet as they struggled to watch each-other's backs, and sucked their boots into its depths.

It was what Glorfindel would have called a tactical disaster, and a grievous mistake to make. Elladan spared a fond thought for their master-of-arms, hoping that his mission would see him back safe, no matter how useful another sword would have been – and that they would have a chance not to hear the end of it from him. The combination was one of the lessons he had taught them, and that, on retrospective, he must have hoped they would never need. _It is the last resort of the cornered_, Elladan remembered bitterly.

"One, two…" He rebelled further as he took up the counting instead.

Swords rose and fell in unison, an implacable rhythm that masked the aching muscles and the fear within.

"Go, brother," Elrohir urged him, "the end is near – the end of our waiting. One of us has to go." He glanced behind his shoulder, flashing Elladan a tired smile. "For us!"

_Three…_

"You will be here when I return," Elladan growled warningly, hoping to keep the fear from his voice. "You better. Urúvion!" he called out and waited until the younger warrior joined them. "Take my place."

_Four._

The warriors shifted places with care, rearranging their formation to compensate for the loss of one of them and, with one last look at his brother, Elladan lunged into the thick of the battle once again.

It was not even that far, he thought dimly as he carved out a way for himself. He could see Sveyn clearly now, planted in the middle of the battlefield as though confused about how he had gotten there. He was so out of his element that his survival instincts had not taken control. The boy was lucky not to have found himself in someone's way yet – and just as he thought that, Elladan saw the danger. The man seemed as desperate as he was, all cornered fury and fear, swinging his blade to keep the diminishing number of his allies at his side. Their entrance had foiled his plan, his rebellion now unwittingly crushed by the mad army. Now he was about to take out their own hope, albeit unknowingly; Sveyn watched the blade rise with the unblinking eyes of an animal at slaughter.

A flash of steel caught Elladan's eye, drawing it away from the scene against his will. There stood Lindir, and he wondered briefly at his presence here before taking in Lindir's bloodstained hands and ashen face. Though the reason of his friend's appearance suddenly seemed clear, Elladan prayed against reason that the blood was not his or Glorfindel's. Remembering his own motivations, he quickly calculated their chances. He was too far, exhausted and therefore too slow to get to the boy in time. Lindir's chances seemed greater, although he looked even closer to death than Sveyn was.

"Lindir!"

He watched his friend sway on his feet, his own heart sinking in dread at both the thoughts that he was badly wounded, and that he may not save Sveyn. But Lindir looked up, meeting his gaze, and Elladan willed what was left of his own strength into him, if only to keep him alive. But they had to try.

"Lindir! The boy, save the boy! He is the heir!" he screamed out, pouring his desperation and his hope into the words while still trying to push through. Lindir did not know what they knew, was not aware of the mistake they had made years ago in overlooking the boy in favor of Aeve.

Elladan stumbled as a man fell in his path; he took out his frustration on the soldier, swearing as he hit him and breaking eye contact for a heartbeat before he found Lindir and Sveyn again. He almost sagged beside the fallen man in relief when he saw Glorfindel emerge from the fray in all his golden glory and drive his blade through the leader's chest.

A frown of surprise marred the man's features as he took in his killer's face, but Elladan discarded it from his mind. He had seen the blade rise and the boy cower before it, his own sword a useless weight in his hand. It could have been another death amongst the many happening this day, another nameless body for the crows to fight over; except that his blood was too precious to be allowed to simply seep into the already quenched earth. Sveyn was safe and, what was more, Glorfindel was alive.

He willed himself to relax his grip on his sword and vaulted over a pile of bodies with what energy he still possessed to snatch the youth by the back of his oversized armour. The boy yelped in fright, struggling to break free despite his exhaustion, and Elladan shook him, aware that he was being less than gentle.

"Stop fighting me," he growled with another shake, "I mean you no harm. Look at me." He spun the boy around, leaning down to meet his eyes. "Look at me!"

Strikingly familiar grey eyes bore into his. The boy's jaw went slack as he froze, staring at what he probably thought was an illusion – if illusions could shake one out of their daze.

"I will get you out of here," Elladan said, never relinquishing his hold on the battered armour. He glanced over to where he had seen Lindir and Glorfindel last; they were crouching by the rebel leader, who had unwittingly almost taken a life worth so much more than his own. Still, it was one dead too many. "Come." He pulled the boy along as he strode towards the pair, watching out for more enemy swords.

The battle was growing quieter around them as dead bodies piled up and the survivors staggered towards their camp's banners; but he heard it rage still in his back, where he had come from. His heart ached briefly when he thought of Elrohir in the midst of the chaos, but reassured himself with the thought that if his brother was dead, he would have felt it. How could he not?

"He is dead," Glorfindel announced as he let go of the leader's armour and wiped his bloody hand on his thigh. He scanned the battlefield around them. "Where is Elrohir?"

"Left behind." Elladan grit out the words, detesting the meaning they seemed to convey and the very fact that he had been forced to abandon his brother. "He lives," he added defiantly at Glorfindel's questioning stare, letting pass the raised eyebrow that followed without a reply. "Lindir?"

"Yes?"

The voice that replied was so weak that Elladan had almost missed it. Deathly pale, Lindir wavered even in his crouching position by the body, and Glorfindel extended an arm to steady him as he made it to rise.

"He is badly wounded, we must get him out of here," the warrior said severely. "Now." He eyed the boy by Elladan's side and, as he did not comment, Elladan deduced that his pragmatic nature must have found him lacking interest. "Let us find the others."

Lindir only barely made it to his feet, even with Glorfindel's help, and the wound in his side gaped mockingly at Elladan when he moved, stirring the dormant guilt at bringing his friends so far into danger. Though informed, they were not necessarily prepared for it and now, from the looks of it, Lindir was facing the same road Maenhíl had taken. Was Glorfindel's unspoken question true, was it all worth the price they paid?

They trudged through the ruts dug by their own weapons and boots, Glorfindel supporting Lindir and following Elladan who dragged Sveyn along like a careless child its doll. Truth was, he was starting to become worried about the fate of the ones he had left behind. The battle had subsided, the field cleared of men still standing or fighting, but there was no sign of Elrohir and their warriors save for the wounds that marked the dead.

He spun around, hackles raised in advance. "We must find Elrohir!" he growled, anticipating Glorfindel's words. "I am not leaving without him."

"He is not here!" Glorfindel growled back, dragging Lindir's nearly-dead weight and scowling at the blood that still seeped into his tunic. "Elladan, Lindir is dying, we must get back before they reorganize their assault!"

His urgency, the nameless something that flashed warningly in his eyes, made Elladan falter. This was important, he realized, Lindir was important – not only for himself, and not only because he was a friend and a comrade-in-arms. His death, or rather his life, meant something for Glorfindel. Suddenly there was a limit to his loyalty, an edge that he would topple over if pushed too far into a choice he did not want to make. Elladan stood, speechless, lowering the hand that had gripped the handle of his sword in an unconscious readiness to carve out his way to Elrohir.

"Is Elrohir alive?" Glorfindel asked, "can you sense him? Would you not know…?" he pushed, and Elladan searched his heart for the answer. Yes, deep down inside he was certain his twin yet lived, but the worry dictated by reason threatened to overwhelm that instinct. "Yes," he ground out. "He lives."

"Then we leave. Let them meet us in Imladris, where we are safe and our wounded are cared for. Your heir needs rest as well."

Elladan hesitated; everything he thought he knew seemed to threaten him with unexpected change, ever since the heir was not the heir and his own twin sent him away. It was confusing, and he wished he had his brother's council; but Elrohir was not here. He turned his back to the battlefield and the crows that circled the scarred land to follow Glorfindel and Lindir, his heart heavy with doubt and worry.

oOoOo

From the light that filtered through his eyelids, Lindir could feel that he was drifting awake; but the effort of opening his eyes seemed just beyond his strength. He reasoned that there was no urgency in doing that just yet, and decided he would be content in remaining half-asleep for a little while longer.

"Do not even try to pretend that you are still unconscious," said a familiar, stern voice from a few feet away. "Your breathing has changed." Lindir winced as he imagined Glorfindel's glare. "I am not going anywhere, so you might as well open your eyes. Our talk is long overdue."

"Glorfindel." His own voice sounded raspy and weak, and Lindir found out as he spoke that his throat was parched. He cracked an eye open, waiting for it to adjust to the light in the room, then opened the other. Just as he had expected, Glorfindel was lounging in a seat by the bed, his arms crossed on his chest in what Lindir knew to be the no-nonsense posture.

"Wonderful, you remember me." The warrior tilted his head in mock curiosity. "I wonder, what else do you recall? The battle, mayhap? Or even the second Aragorn's heir – the one you asked me to kill?"

He watched with narrowed eyes as Lindir motioned for the pitcher that stood on the bedtable, but seemed to have decided not to deny him the water before getting his answer. Lindir downed the cool liquid in careful gulps, suddenly mindful of the bandages that criss-crossed on his chest under the covers. Looking up, he met Glorfindel's stare.

"I will not bother telling you not to touch them," the warrior commented with a nod to Lindir's chest. "Go ahead…"

Lindir set the goblet down and gingerly touched those strips of fabric – they seemed clean, and he felt no pain.

"Careful." Glorfindel's voice dropped a tone lower, stopping him from lifting one of the bandages in sheer morbid curiosity. "The wound is – was - serious. Elladan worked on you for hours before he could declare you out of danger."

He seemed almost anxious as he recalled the events Lindir had missed, which prompted for more questions than he was owed answers to. Lindir shifted his weight with great care, pulling himself into a half-sitting position. The wound did give a jolt of pain as he lowered himself back onto the pillow, and he decided not to push his luck any further.

"I remember…" he began, "Gaervaed's final words. Have you heard them?"

Glorfindel nodded, leaning deeper into the seat.

"All these years… We thought we were the last ones to remain!" Lindir had to remind himself of his wound so that he would not fidget at the recollection of the events and the shock that the dying man's words had caused. "Maglor, of all people... Elrond's foster-father." He shook his head in disbelief.

"Gaervaed was another of his protégés, it seems," Glorfindel nodded, "and also a descendant of the line of Eärendil, which," he pointed out, unwilling to change the subject, "does not explain your actions."

_Nor does it yours_. Lindir watched the warrior in return, meeting his eyes as steadily as he could. Here, far from the chaos of the battlefield and in the clarity of the morning, his decision seemed desperate at best; but no matter how he racked his brain for a more logical solution, he could find none, which made him momentarily proud of the rapidity of his thinking in such a situation.

"He did not know," he said eventually, tearing his gaze from Glorfindel and travelling back to that fateful moment. "Elladan – he did not know what we knew, that Gaervaed was another heir to Aragorn's bloodline. He only saw him as a threat to the hope he and Elrohir had cherished for so long." He shrugged weakly, cautious not to work any of the muscles too close to the wound. "We could not have saved both of them."

"We could have tried. I could have…"

"No!" Lindir sat up, ignoring the sudden burn beneath the bandages and the quickening of his pulse. "No. We have paid in lives enough already. We – you - could only save one, and I chose the lesser evil."

"For whom?" Glorfindel drawled from his seat. He was getting impatient, Lindir could tell, but he had never been one to listen to reason rather than his heart in the first place.

"For Elladan and Elrohir. What do you think would have happened, had we allowed the boy to be slain before their eyes? Do you not know them well enough to understand the guilt that would have weighed them down, tied them to these shores forever, and this even if another heir had survived the battle? It was always all or nothing with them, from the beginning." Lindir shook his head. "No, let them believe their task is done, their oath fulfilled. Let them be free at last, and the rest of us along with them."

He was expecting anger, disappointment maybe, but certainly not the bitter laugh that spilled from Glorfindel's lips.

"Free?"

The warrior rose suddenly, pushing himself out of his chair, and only then did Lindir notice the armor he still wore – bloodstained, scraped, clashing with the peaceful setting of the room. "Not us, Lindir. Not anymore. There can be no peace. The brothers have been separated, Elrohir is missing – and we are heading out to search for him; but even if we were to return successful…" He shook his golden mane. "You have tied me to the fate of this boy and Elbereth help me, I will see it done. Until the prophesy is accomplished, I will remain, and if I stay, so do you. Of this you can be certain."


	15. Chapter 14

- Chapter 14 -

Aeve watched the end of the exchange from behind a pillar, hidden in the shadows of the hallway that surrounded the courtyard. Holding her breath in fascination rather than in an attempt of silence, she stared shamelessly and took in every glimpse of face and expression, armor and demeanor she was offered. These new elves were as different from those she had already met as she was from Ida, or at least one of them was. Until now, she had assumed that black or brown hair was a trait shared by all of their kind, but the elf she had seen in the courtyard was everything but dark. His locks had shone in the sunlight brighter than the gold-plated locket that Ida had received for her fifteenth birthday – and that made Aeve green with envy for months. He was tall and handsome; Aeve ended up admitting to herself after a long internal struggle and a great deal of remorse that he was more beautiful than Sveyn.

She rolled around the pillar and out of sight, her back against the carved stone, as the visitors departed, and stole a last glance over her shoulder. Gwillin, her assigned keeper, grimaced at their retreating backs, looking almost human for a second – less than perfect, so much that she didn't feel obliged to look sheepish when she felt his eyes on her.

She had been bored and restless before, left to her own devices in the confines of the room that had been assigned to her while waiting for the elves' return. Whatever had they expected her to do? The room itself had once been richly decorated, the places that had been stripped of furniture and tapestries glaringly evident despite years of inoccupation. There still were paintings on the walls, revealed to her as the sunlight circled the room with the day's decline; but the handsome knights, the cities white and beautiful ladies could not hold her interest for long. There were no stories to be heard about them, their faces were unfamiliar.

Gwillin had to know some of their stories, she decided, and even the worry for Sveyn's wellbeing could not smother her curiosity completely, not now that it had been piqued further.

"Have they found him?" she asked as Gwillin brushed past her and down the corridor.

"No." His voice echoed off the stone walls, cold and detached. "That would be because they were not looking for him. Glorfindel and Lindir's mission was of… another nature."

Aeve sensed the change in his voice at the mention of the last name.

"You don't like Lindir much, do you?" she blurted out, hurrying to keep in stride with Gwillin's brisk pace. This was not the beginning of a heroic tale, but she liked gossip just as much.

He barely spared her a glance and, brief as it was and laden with annoyance, she thought she also saw amusement in his grey eyes. She risked pressing the matter further, feeling quite smart at having caught a display of human emotion in that stern face of his.

"It's obvious that you don't, you know. It's allright… There are also people I don't like, but that doesn't make me a worse person. I think."

"Does it not?" He curled his lips into a half-smile. "Well, thank you kindly for this piece of wisdom. I am most reassured."

"Eh, you're welcome." Letting the jibe slide, she picked up her skirts so that they would not tangle before her feet, increasing her capacity to keep up. "So, why don't you like him?"

He narrowed his eyes, glaring at her from his height. "That is hardly your business."

"That is hardly relevant. You could still tell me, if you wanted," she countered and, after a meaningful silence, added: "But you don't want to. Fine." She stopped and, waiting for him to walk further away for an increased dramatic effect, said, "If you don't want to talk, I won't force you. I can see you don't like mortals very much, and I won't bother you further with my presence." She could almost see the process of thought ticking away in his head as he paused mid-stride. "My family needs me, and I should go home."

"You cannot." He spun around, annoyance clear on his face. "It is yet too dangerous for you to return to the village."

"I don't care." It was a low blow, Aeve knew it, and risky as well. She really hoped he had qualms about laying a hand on his protégée, or she was seconds away from being simply locked up in her room – she knew that her own parents would not have hesitated to do so. But elves, it seemed, did not exercise confinement as a punishment, if they punished at all. Gwillin scowled.

"You are being… unreasonable. You are not so young as to not know what awaits you should you get caught."

The reminder of Sveyn's words stung unexpectedly hard. Unreasonable, hot-headed, stubborn, she had been called all that these last years, and worse. Whether she behaved accordingly or not used to be a concern, but more often than not it got overridden by her pride and temper, and Aeve realized she was tired of keeping those in check. Never mind the trouble it got her into, never mind the danger for the others.

"Well, I am mortal," she agreed with what she hoped was grandeur, shrugging a shoulder to emphasize the statement; but her voice cracked in the middle of the sentence. "You can blame it on my blood. And I'm scared and tired and bored, and unless you pull that stick out of your behind, I am going home. Now." She realized that there were tears stinging her eyes, that her fists were clenched and that despite all her anger, Gwillin just stood there, towering over her. He was yet to react to her rude words, and she quivered inwardly at the anticipated reaction.

Gwillin laughed.

"Blackmail, how charming. Tell me, how often does that work?"

Slightly abashed, she wiped her eyes as she shifted her weight from one foot to another. "Often enough," she conceded. And, refusing to back down from her threat, she stared him in the eye. "Well?"

He seemed to decide that she was worth the trouble; either that or he was sufficiently afraid of Elladan and Elrohir to let her go into danger. "Very well," he said eventually. "Come. I may tell you something – not necessarily what you want, mind you – if you promise not to behave like a spoiled elfling again." He smirked. "I had parents too, you know. And I still remember their favorite punishments. I have no doubt, from personal experience, that you would find them unpleasant."

oOoOo

Aeve had seen the Hall before, but somehow it seemed more crowded now with only Gwillin's long legs stretched out towards the fire than it had with all the elves gathered inside. She watched him roll his shoulders and sink deeper into his seat, his angled body casting crooked shadows onto the painted walls. It was a little like one of those travelling theaters, where the décor was part of the story, and where the puppeteers' hands were the evil witches edging towards the peaceful scenes in the background. But Gwillin was not evil, simply bitter and probably very, very old.

"If I tell you, will you remember?" he asked suddenly. He was not looking at her, staring into the fireplace instead as though her answer did not really matter. "Will you remember us, our names, our stories? I know Lindir has been keeping track of us, of those who died and those who still live; but I fear his records will not survive this enterprise."

He turned to look at her, then, and smiled sadly. "Do I come across as vain? I fear I do… Ah, well. We all have our weaknesses." He nodded to his own affirmation and stared into the flames again. "We all have a heritage to keep."

A stray draft crept through the hall and found a way under the layers of Aeve's clothing. She shivered, which seemed to pull Gwillin out of his reverie. He pushed himself up and, casting a sharp "Stay here," over his shoulder, disappeared into a corridor. He was not gone long, Aeve surmised, before he returned with something that looked like liquid silver draped over his arm.

"Here."

The fabric slid over her shoulders, heavy yet flowing and so very unbelievably soft. Like quicksilver, Aeve thought again as she ran her fingers through the fringe lining the shawl.

"It belonged to the last mistress of the House." Gwillin's voice was distant again. "Her name was Arwen, and she was my Lord's only daughter. And your Sveyn's ancestor too, by the way," he added with a small nod towards Aeve as she pulled the shawl higher to ward off the draft on her neck. "Her choice doomed her to die a mortal's death alongside Aragorn, the Great King whose line they… _we_ are trying to preserve. Sveyn's blood is half hers… But this too was forgotten."

"Why did she die?" Aeve whispered, loath to break Gwillin's line of thought yet devoured by a curiosity that demanded she discovered Arwen's story before his mind strayed onto another path.

"She chose to live a short life beside the one she loved instead of an endless one with those who loved her. Her father, her brothers… Elladan and Elrohir," he clarified under her puzzled stare. "She married their foster brother Estel, the man who would become Aragorn. Their son Eldarion started the line that ends with Sveyn."

"But it will not, will it?" Aeve looked at him from her seat, her knees huddled against her chest for both warmth and comfort.

"That depends on you, does it not?"Gwillin's glance was sharp and inquisitive. "Have they told you about the prophesy? Have they told you all of it?"

Aeve shifted in discomfort under his gaze. Truth was, the elves had spoken little of her role in the story, after they had discovered that she was not the heir they had been waiting for and getting ready to safekeep in their home. They had departed in a hurry and no-one had bothered to tell her why exactly it was that she still needed to stay. Gwillin's question voiced her doubts, putting words on the feeling of unease she had been harboring.

"Why do they need me?" she asked quietly. "What does it have to do with me?" Was it a look of pity that Gwillin gave her? Did his eyes soften just a little, right then, at the thought of her fate?

"No-one will force you," he said calmly, crossing his legs before the fireplace. "But the line needs an heir, and Sveyn will – eventually – have to sire a child. And the vision, the prophesy that was shown to Elladan and Elrohir, was an image of you holding an infant in your arms." He paused, allowing her to piece the bits and pieces of information together.

Aeve could feel her cheeks flame up at the situation implied by his words; she looked away, feeling his eyes on her face as she busied herself with the fringe of the shawl.

"You love him." Gwillin's voice was calm and steady, and Aeve found it unnervingly reasonable as he disserted on her future. "He will grow to love you… Even though it is not necessary." He sneered, breaking the impassible façade he had been maintaining. "I hear mortal men do not need this kind of pre-requisite." He seemed genuinely disgusted at his own words, and though utterly mortified, Aeve could not help but feel a little grateful for his anger.

It was no prank, this time, no childish and stupid joke; she shuddered at the unsaid affirmation that she could be asked to lay with a man who did not care for her, but only for his own good and that of his line. Gwillin was speaking of that duty that honorable women were expected to fulfill according to the stricter traditions of the land, a perspective that she had long ago labeled as the most humiliating that could be.

It was something murmured to her by her mother, once, when she had first sought to understand the changes of her body; a story centuries old endured by many women before her time. This could happen to others, but not - never – to her. And not with Sveyn, whom she had secretly admired and bashfully desired for the last months, despite her anger at his antics. Not with Sveyn, who could be kind, and make her laugh even when she was feeling sad, trying hard until she cracked a smile through her tears. They had nothing sacred going on – they had nothing at all, by all standards, but there should have been an unspoken law that protected the young and lovesick from such realities.

"But what if I don't want to do it?" Aeve whispered, horrified. Then with more strength in her voice as she imagined herself at the side of a jaded, indifferent Sveyn, she confirmed: "If he… If he doesn't love me, I don't want to."

"The weight of duty… You feel it, do you not?" Once again, Gwillin's smile did not reach his eyes. "You wanted to know why I did not like Lindir. You have it. It seems to me like he is the only one who has never lost a thing to this cause – no loved one, no principle or illusion; there is not a mark on his soul. He has everything to gain, but nothing to pay it with." He ran a hand though his dark hair, perhaps oblivious of the wariness the gesture betrayed. "Glorfindel – the charming one who rarely means it, sacrificed his hopes of ever founding a family to the preservation of a bloodline long lost. Elladan and Elrohir lost their sister long ago, and now risk losing one another. I…" He stopped himself at the price of a visible effort, and shook his head. "Enough. Know only – and this I swear – that no-one will force you into this marriage. I will not allow it."

oOoOo

The house was unnaturally quiet – too much so to be called homely, despite what Gwillin had told her about its past. The vast hallways stood silent, the large windows held no warmth within the walls of the dwelling; it felt as though Rivendell had been built for decoration rather than comfort, or at least a mortal's idea of it. The elves and the statues seemed to like the place just fine.

Aeve jumped when she heard a rustle; she spun around, expecting one of the elves to emerge from a nearby corridor, his quiet ways betraying that the sound had only been made to warn her of his imminent arrival. But only leaves waltzed in, carried by the autumn wind.

She sighed, huddling closer to the dying fire. She was not cold, wrapped in the soft silver shawl; but the gold-red reflections crackling in the circle of stones reminded her of home - of how a home really should be. There should be voices, she thought, and footsteps, instead of these inhabitants who moved like shadows and spoke in whispers. There should be joy, loud and invasive, or grief poignant for everyone to see. Life should beat like a drum, instead of shuffling through empty corridors like a ball of dust.

Aeve pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders, where the light of the fire did not touch it, the shimmering fabric took the color of what she imagined the sea to be. Her nose caught a scent, almost masked by the smell of dust and lavender used to preserve the fabric, and she wondered about the lady whom the shawl had once belonged. Arwen, whose delicate hands had folded it lovingly and set it aside in regret, smoothing the creases as though to apologize for the abandonment, arguing that it was for a higher cause.

A higher cause… Did that apply to her now?

Something rustled in her back again, but she did not bother to turn around. The elves could announce themselves if they wished to speak to her.

"The colour suits you."

Aeve jumped at the sound of the familiar voice, twisting around from her huddling position so that she could witness what she just heard. Sveyn grinned at her from the looming doorway, his smile tired and void of that mirth that used to infuriate her when born at her own expense.

"Grey was always your colour."

"You!" she whispered, scrambling to her feet and still clutching the shawl to help her hold on to her thoughts. "You're back!"

He opened his arms to show that indeed he was unharmed; mostly, anyway, she noted grimly, minus the scrapes and shallow gashes that marred his skin here and there. The armor he wore hung from his body, ill-fitted and obviously heavy. It had chafed an angry red line at the base of his throat, and Aeve winced as he absent-mindedly tugged at the collar to allow the sweaty wound to breathe. She took a tentative step towards him. They had parted in confusion, and her own feelings were still a mess. How did he feel, after what she had done to him? And how did she feel, now that she knew..?

"They brought me here," he said simply, shaking his head. "Elves. Huh. I never would've thought…"

"They're nice," Aeve snapped defensively, immediately regretting the tone but not the words. He was not responsible for her situation, and had no more chosen his fate than she had. She fingered the fringe of the shawl, eyes downcast. "They have been very kind to me… To us." Quieter she added: "They undid what I have caused."

She did not hear him approach, for all his heavy mail and his usual lack of discretion; but suddenly he was standing before her, and she dared not move for fear of both scaring him off and inviting him closer.

Sveyn's hand was warm on her skin as he touched a bent finger to her chin, pushing it up. "Don't," he said. "I don't blame you, I was angry myself." He let his arm fall, and Aeve guessed how much effort the gesture had cost him. The armor he still wore, and the smiles he persisted in flashing her, drank his strength by the minute.

"You're wounded," she blurted out and reached out to touch his neck, but pulled away at the last moment. "Get out of this mail, and let me take a look." She blushed at his suggestive smile, but her embarrassment was dampened by the fact that it was laden with more exhaustion than innuendo. Still, as often before, she did not know how to respond with something else than annoyance or embarrassment, and their halting conversation drew to an end. This was a familiar scheme of flirting against uneasy silence, a ground she had never found her way out of, and one Sveyn mastered beyond challenge.

It could not be all there was to them, was it? Would things always end up on this terrain, all seriousness eclipsed by pretend light-heartedness. Sveyn would never love her if she could not match up to his banter. She almost resented the elves for having answered her that day, in the woods, for leaving her with the knowledge of the truth and an impossible choice – almost. She did not want to imagine what would have happened to Sveyn had they not done so.

_He is often charming, but rarely in earnest_, she remembered Gwillin's words about Glorfindel. In that instant, she missed the elf's honesty.

"Stop it," she sighed, to Sveyn's obvious surprise as he opened his mouth for what had to be another witty line. "You don't mean it – any of it. I don't want your jokes, I don't want your flirting. It's all you ever do... And if you want me - all of me, the good and the bad - this will have to change."


End file.
